Blinding
by Archaeobee
Summary: Christine has spent four years mourning a life she never lost. Erik has spent four years mourning a love he never had. When fate and tragedy bring them together, can they find a way to forgive? EC, ALW2004 and Leroux.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **Reposted a year later with a touch of editing. Hopefully it will stay up this time.

_**Blinding**_

_By Dream Descends_

۞

**_Prologue _**

۞

The hostelry was nearing empty as midnight settled in Paris, France. Satiated drunkards lumbered out onto the streets, their intoxicated calls echoing in the subdued silence. Barmaids were rhythmically wiping down the counters and tables, the dramatic rouge painting their cheeks eerie and distorted in the shadows of the dimming candlelight.

Few men were left, gulping down their ale. They had stayed, for tonight was one of the Mask's, and they could not bear to miss it.

These men were men haunted by their pasts: by rejected and lost loves, by unspeakable crimes, by war and bloodshed. They stayed because the Mask understood them; spoke to them, and in the Mask they found, for a time, forgiveness and comfort in a life that had none otherwise.

The Mask, as regulars of the bar had titled him, was a man who arrived one night a year ago, and had been returning habitually since. Sometimes he would miss a few days, or even an entire month. Other times, he would come every evening for weeks on end. And all he did when he came was sit at the piano and play.

The usual pianist had at first been offended when he had returned from a short interlude to find a complete stranger in his seat; but, like every other man or woman in the tavern, he had learned to respect the mysterious visitor. Now, whenever the man appeared at the door, he immediately rose from his seat and made way for the ominous figure swathed in black.

Even if the man had not the incredible skill on the piano, no one would have dared challenge him. He towered over them all, shoulders broad and a gaze that stung like fire. He was certainly handsome, as the barmaids immediately noticed, with an expressive mouth and startlingly bright blue eyes. If only, they often said to each other, he did not have that curious white mask covering the right side of his face.

And the music he played, _mon dieu_, the music. It was sin, and heaven, and all the elements bound and controlled by human hands, told in music to absolute perfection. The very essence of death, life, hate, and love had been captured and rediscovered, then at last exposed with the keys of a piano.

What had this man seen, lived through, been granted that gave him such power and knowledge, the ability to hold existence in his grasp, to caress it and manipulate it to do his bidding? Those who were blessed enough to hear his melodies could hardly imagine.

That night, he had come in earlier than usual, shoving the door open with an unexpected bang and causing a sudden hush throughout the tavern. With a grand flourish of his dark cloak, he seemed to glide across the room as though made of shadow, reaching his destination just as the pianist was scrambling from his bench.

The first chord he struck sent everyone into a stunned stupor, and as the evening wore on, people spoke rarely, and then only in whispers, as though they were witnessing something sacred, a divinity sent from above.

Now, as the last of the guests departed for home, the Mask played for an audience of none, filling every contour and cranny in the rotting building with his soulful, palpably eloquent song.

But, at the farthest table, one had remained; one who was there without any other's knowledge, for he was still considered too young to see this supposedly filthy, corrupted side of the world. Something in the eccentric musician provoked him, stirred something in him that had never been touched on. He felt himself inexplicably drawn to him, not frightened like the others, but eager to move closer, to discover if it was apparition or mortal before him.

He got to his feet, and, as noiselessly as he could manage, moved across the room to stand next to the piano. The man's entire form convulsed as he played, his eyelids pressed shut to conceal the dim sparkle of tears. To see such human emotions in such an unearthly man startled the onlooker, but he did not move away.

As though a lever inside the man had been pulled, the Mask suddenly shot up stiff as a board, his hands stumbling to a halt over the keys with a horrible tuneless thunderclap. The young observer leapt backward in surprise, balling his hands into anxious fists as the stranger turned on him with a stare of cold fury.

"Leave me be." The words were no more than a whisper, in a voice deep and surprisingly hoarse, as though it was out of practice.

The youth clamped his teeth down on his tongue, the traitorous muscle willing him to stutter. With a slow, shaky breath, he replied, "I didn't mean to intrude, _monsieur_. I was only curious." He began to turn away, his pride forbidding him to appear hasty.

"Curious? _Hah!_" The older man collapsed back into the seat, hands trembling. "Of course, one cannot help but be curious—the devil's child—certainly, an audience would not be hard to come by…"

_Mad, _the younger man thought, a stab of pity striking the pit of his stomach, _a raving lunatic._ The pianist went on muttering in a mimicking tone, until a feather-light hand on his shoulder made him start. He barely glanced back as the onlooker spoke to him.

"Can I help you somehow, my friend?" When no reply came, he continued, "My name is Dion Marchand. I could find you a doctor, or shelt—"

"I don't need a doctor," the Mask snapped, but his rigid shoulders had slumped a little. "Your charity is futile here, foolish boy."

"Not charity, then," Dion quickly agreed. "…Work. If I offered you work?"

The Mask chuckled humorlessly. "You're the Baron's son—I've heard your name. Your diplomacy is not quite as polished as his, is it? I'm not a stable hand, nor a chauffeur. Leave me in peace."

A sensible man would have left it at that. Dion may not have had the sense or the tact of his father, but he had compassion in abundance. "A tutor," he blurted out abruptly. "I can offer you a job as a tutor—my tutor."

The masked face cocked to the side, only slightly. "A tutor," the man repeated blankly.

Dion continued hurriedly, "In music, of course. My music tutor."

There was a crackling silence for a moment. Dion felt his chest swell with irrational pride as he saw the interest flutter over the man's half-concealed features. "You don't know who I am," the Mask murmured finally. With a note of dour amusement that Dion did not understand, he added, "You could be hiring a convict; an outlaw."

"Perhaps," Dion agreed, dismissing the idea. "But I believe in kindred spirits, _monsieur_. I have found one tonight—I am sure of it."

The change in the man was subtle, and yet once it was there it gave cause for Dion to shake his head in disbelief. The Mask got to his feet, raising his chin and flexing his fingers at his sides. He was abruptly a gentleman.

"I accept your proposal. You may call me Erik."

۞


	2. Reverie

۞

_**Chapter One:**_

_Reverie_

۞

_Nice, France, 1874_

۞

"_So the proposal is as follows: I shall pay for your traveling costs to Nice."_

"_To be sure."_

"_Your salary shall start at thirty thousand francs."_

"_Acceptable."_

"_I shall arrange for you to stay in my home until you can find your own lodgings."_

"_I prefer to live by myself. Your hospitality is unnecessary."_

"_Very well. We leave on the Thursday next."_

۞

_Rich,_ Erik thought sardonically. _That is what I look—rich. _

And of course he was correct. His reflection was one of sartorial perfection: a satin waistcoat of deep blue, buttoning over a fine muslin shirt and silk cravat. He wore black breeches, tucked into leather books that fit without a wrinkle.

He did indeed look notably wealthy—which was as it should be, for he had been receiving an amount equivalent to a small fortune, every month for the past two years.

Erik felt a small prick of discomfort as he labeled Dion so off-handedly, for the boy had shown him nothing but kindness and respect during his years as Erik's pupil. _Skill, as well, _Erik thought vaguely. _The boy has skill._ It had been a pleasant surprise, to say the least, to find a young male of the upper class who was not tripping over his own feet. Certainly, that was how they came in—

He cut the thought off at its route. Even mentioning the name of the city was something akin to physical pain, and he heard it enough on the streets these days. Everyone spoke of France's capital, of the political turmoil fouling up its underbelly. Everyone spoke of Paris.

He had yet to take out the memories of that place and examine them, make sense of them, relive them. They were kept carefully under lock and key, in a shaded closet at the back of his mind. Every now and then the closet doors would buckle under their immeasurable obligation, but for two years the lock had held tight. Only in dreams would he have a fleeting glimpse of the hours upon weeks upon months spent roaming aimlessly from one tavern to another, squandering what money he had on drink and company. Day leaked into night, until one putrid evening he had stumbled drunkenly across that old, wheezing piano.

The first note he played nearly killed him, ripping open the tight seal on his throat, digging into his unpracticed lungs. And then a great blockade of slime-coated grief poured out of him, burning his nostrils and flooding his eyes with tears. He did not care who heard, after that, because there was only him at that piano. Him and the darkness, as he coaxed it, embraced it; let it enfold him in its shade.

Sometimes he would starve himself for days, seeing how long he could go without the music to comfort him. The cement he slept on was cold and unforgiving, not a home, he prayed to God, not his bed forever. He wanted salvation or death. He received the former and took it without a backward glance, consequences be damned.

And now he must entertain at Dion's party.

_Fool!_ Erik scolded himself repeatedly. _Fool for agreeing to such a ridiculous demand!_

He could not recall, at any time in his haphazard life, ever attending a social event without the intention to terrify or murder one of its invitees, which to some may have been considered humourous. Erik, quite horrified at the idea of a soiree, was not in the least bit amused.

But Dion was irritatingly persistent, begging him to attend all through their lessons, saying he wanted to show the guests what he had learned, and it would be near impossible if his tutor was not present. He needed the support, he claimed.

Erik, who had been as far from supportive as one could be throughout the entirety of the time he had been teaching Dion, doubted this statement highly. In fact, he was quite certain Dion was trying to do one of those things that one friend does for another. He was trying to do Erik a favour; that favour being introducing him to society.

Society was exactly what Erik had believed he would escape by relocating to the beautiful seaside town of Nice. But, as he had never once spoken of his past, or of the reason he wore his mask, to Dion he did not have a valid excuse to not attend. Dion had accused him of being frightened.

_Frightened?_

Erik had said he would come. Dion was a friend of sorts, he supposed. He owed him as much to be there on his birthday.

Moving to the window, he looked out onto the ocean. It was dusk, and the setting sun sent streaks of golden light spiraling through the sky. The choppy water glinted and sparkled, gently lapping up against the white sand shore. Erik had grown fond of the sea since he had come here, its scent comforting and refreshing him, and its unpredictability drawing him to it. As soon as he had raised enough money, he had purchased a small manor by the beach and spent his first night on the balcony, fascinated by the reflection of the moonlight on the water.

And how warm the sun was. He had spent his first weeks in Nice cooped indoors, except when he left to teach Dion at the Baron Marchand's home. But soon he had grown curious, and could not help but venture out. People on the streets had stared inquisitively at his mask, some smiling as though he was dressed in a bizarre costume, others frowning at the absurdity of wearing such an adornment in the middle of the day. He had been amazed at the simple pleasure of walking in the sun, and had not given a thought to their looks.

Now, he had gained a reputation in the town as Heir Marchand's mysterious, wealthy employee, and all gazes were of fearful respect. Erik had been deeply amused at the rumours spreading as to why he wore the mask; some said he had heroically rescued a family from a burning building, and been injured in the doing. Others claimed a poisonous snake had bitten him while he was trekking the jungles of India, and the entire right side of his face was purple and scarred. The stories became so ludicrous that he had simply stopped listening for them. It was better than what they believed in Paris, at least.

Just as the sun dipped below the waves, a man spoke behind him. "Shall I bring 'round the carriage, monsieur?"

Erik whirled around to find his footman at the bedroom door. He must have not closed it behind him. "Do not enter without knocking, Beaumont," he hissed immediately.

The short, fair-haired man paled and nodded quickly. "My apologies--" he stammered, but Erik cut him off.

"And yes, bring it around. I will drive myself tonight."

"As you wish," Beaumont murmured, and hurriedly shut the door. Besides him, Erik had also in his service a cook named Travers and a groundskeeper, Vipond, who tended to the small garden on his estate. They were equally as terrified of Erik as the nervous footman.

Rubbing his temple, he absentmindedly inspected his room. The focal point of the room was his massive mahogany frame bed, which he had hastily made up that morning before he went out. His desk was in front of the alcove at which he now stood, its surface scattered with sheets of music and stained with ink. On the opposing wall were his bureau and an ornate, gilded mirror.

He straightened the parchment on his desk and covered it with a nearby novel, so that it was unnoticeable. He did not want any prying servants examining his work. Drawing the heavy crimson drapes in the alcove to a close, he paused at the doorway.

_Good evening, Madame, Monsieur—my name is Erik de la Rue._

Laughing silently at his own absurdity, he stepped out of the room, locking the door behind him.

۞

"_An invitation arrived while you were out, sir." A white-gloved hand handed a cream coloured envelope to a bare one._

"_Did it?" The bare hand took the envelope curiously, fingering its edges before tearing open the wax seal. "Ah, it's from the Baron! His son's birthday, of course…Do I have any appointments tomorrow evening, Deniau? Ah, don't answer, just see to it that they're cancelled."_

_In another room, two very delicate, pale hands caressed the sleek black casing of a grand piano._

"_Darling!"_

_As the voice called out, the hands immediately recoiled, as though bitten, and moved away hurriedly. "Yes?"_

"_How would you like to attend Dion Marchand's birthday soiree tomorrow night?"_

"_It would please me." The hands fumbled nervously behind a slim waist, itching to reach out for the ivory keys only steps away._

"_It is settled then—Deniau, send word to Baron Marchand, inform him that the Comtesse and I will be attending."_

۞

Christine sat at her vanity, critically examining her reflection. Her maid was twittering compliments in her ear, her irksome high-pitched voice making Christine's head ache.

She supposed she looked passable, with her hair swept up and pinned in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, as was the fashion, and the dark circles under her eyes hidden with the application of face powder. She had proudly managed to keep her figure over the past four years, and she was still as lean and supple as she had been during her days in the _corps de ballet_. She had chosen a gown of pale yellow taffeta for that evening, giving her a delicate, airy appearance.

The healthy glow of her skin was gone though, along with the sparkle in her eye, and that was something no makeup or pretty dress could recreate.

_It is no wonder you have kept your figure, _she thought cynically. _Fat women have mothered many children, created a dozen heirs. Fat women are happy, and you are most definitely not fat._

She shook herself mentally, her own hostility surprising her. She must try to get more sleep.

_But it is not sleep that you need more of, _a small voice at the back of her head rectified her. Ignoring it, she hastily tugged on her gloves, starting when she heard a loud ripping noise.

"Madame!" Her maid gasped, her tone chastising.

Christine smiled wanly down at the ruined gloves. "Another pair, if you please, Adèle."

Adèle nodded acquiescingly and left the room. As soon as she was out of sight, Christine rested her elbows on the vanity and held her head in her hands. She closed her eyes tightly, tears squeezing out under her eyelids and trailing down her cheeks. Her back began to shake, and she pressed a palm firmly over her mouth to stifle her sobs.

_You weak girl, imagine what Madame Giry would say-- crying over a measly pair of gloves!_

But it was not the gloves, Christine knew, and yet denied. It was the cold, dead feeling that consumed her day in and out; the twisted nightmares that she could never remember, but awoke terrified, the breath stole from her lungs all the same. It was the odd, decrepit aching in her heart. It was the death of her child…

_Her_ child…

Footsteps. Christine rubbed her eyes vigourously, just as Adèle reentered the room.

"Your gloves, Comtesse."

"Yes, thank you." She tried to hide the hoarseness in her voice. "Tell my husband I'll join him in a moment."

She stared helplessly in the mirror, the powder under her eyes washed away by her tears. There was no time to fix it. She sighed shakily, and left the room after the maid.

۞

Raoul gazed at his wife as she leaned out of the carriage window. The orange light of the sunset lit up her delicate features, dancing in her eyes like fire. She fanned herself with her hand in the warm weather, unusual for both of them as Parisians. He had hoped this holiday in Nice would help her rebuild her strength, after she had been in bed ill all winter. The doctor had recommended a trip south, for her lungs, but after over three years of increasingly poor health, Raoul wondered what more there was to do for her. What could possibly be done, to heal a woman already dead?

And for all he was worth, he could not say what killed her. Nor could he recall when it occurred, this change in her. Perhaps because there was no exact date, no day he could pinpoint that she went from flying to falling. It had come gradually, seeping into her like a poison, as she grew grayer and bleaker with each passing breath.

Perhaps it was their seeming impossibility to bear children?

He absentmindedly wiped the sweat from his brow, his mind digressing over the four years of their marriage, as it did so often these days. He often lingered on this particular issue though, and while he tried to keep an optimistic outlook on things, a bitter voice in the back of his head asked _when? If after four years, you could not produce a living child, what hope is there for the future?_

Thoughts such as these usually ended with the intake of whiskey. They could not produce a living child…But, a dead one, on the other hand—_No,_ he chided himself, he would not think of such things. It was all in the past, and he must concentrate on what was to come. For, where would the Chagnys end up without an heir? It was an idea Raoul did not wish to entertain for long.

A voice in his ear stirred him from his reverie, and he tried in vain to look as though he had not been thinking such grim thoughts. "Hmm?"

"I said, _'is it not a lovely town?'_" His wife looked at him with concern. "Is something the matter?"

He was struck at how, even in her cloud of misery, she was still the most beautiful woman in Parisian society. She was dressed in light yellow taffeta, her dark curls tied with a ribbon into a bun, and a few stray locks framing her face. Her skin was flawless, white as a dove, and she moved with a natural grace that she had received from her days as a ballet dancer. However, he could not ignore the unhealthy circles under her deep brown eyes, or the odd strain in her lips as she gave him a sweet smile. It was these little things that, though she tried to hide from him, caused him the most worry.

"No, forgive me, I was--"

"Oh, Raoul, do not apologize," she replied, her voice gentle and breathy, as it always was now. It reminded him of a gust of wind, blowing in, swirling around in his head, and then fading away into nothingness.

She reached up and brushed his hair away from his face, like a mother would her son. He searched her listless eyes for anything that might tell him what was on her mind…but, as far as he could see, they were void.

He sighed. "It is indeed a lovely town."

"It was wise of your brother to buy property here," she said dreamily, eyeing a couple strolling down the sidewalk. "We should visit more often."

"Yes, Christine. Perhaps we should."

Soon, the boulevard disappeared into lush vegetation, exotic flowers and towering trees that neither of them had ever seen the likes of before. They spent the rest of the ride in silence, admiring the flora until it was too dark to see, and then wandering through a labyrinth of thoughts. The sky was clear, and the full moon shone like a silver coin among millions of tiny stars.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, and Raoul leapt from his seat. Christine noticed his gaze was averted from her, even has he helped her down the coach steps, and she had a strong urge to grab his face in both hands and force him to look at her.

She did no such thing.

The Baron's mansion was situated in a clearing of aforementioned trees, surrounded by astonishingly green grass and beautiful gardens. A huge fountain stood in the center of the cul-de-sac, water gushing over the top of the granite figurine and pouring down in glistening sheets. Christine stood for a moment, admiring it. Then Raoul, desperate to get inside out of the humid air, tugged at her arm and she allowed him to lead her inside.

The house itself was colossal, all marble floors and winding staircases. Christine had thought the Chagny estate was large, but it was not anything near the home of Baron Marchand.

The doorman showed them inside, and then through two white doors with polished gold handles. They opened to reveal a ballroom as impressive as the house itself, and Christine noticed Raoul's eyes widen in admiration. The dance floor was marble as well, but polished until it almost acted as a mirror for all the dancers upon it. Flowing blue curtains were hung from the banister of the floor above, and Christine reached out as she descended the stairs on Raoul's arm, to find they were made of thick velvet.

"Comte and Comtesse de Chagny!" The doorman announced them formally, and most all gazes turned in their direction. Christine imagined she and Raoul looked quite well together, her brown locks and pale gown against his blonde hair and black tails. She felt decidedly smug as many of the women gave her envious glares, and then immediately was disgusted with herself for sinking to their level.

"Shall we dance?" Raoul asked politely, offering her his hand. Her throat tightened at their stiff formality, and she nodded in acquiescence.

Christine had always admired how well Raoul danced, and she was unable to repress a grin of reminiscence as he turned her and guided her through the steps.

The whirling skirts and rhythmic flowing of bodies lulled her into an odd daydreaming state, and she found herself envisioning everyone in a mask, watching as she and Raoul danced alone, then embracing as they had when they were only engaged. It gave her a tingling, nostalgic sensation in the pit of her stomach as she relived the night of the masquerade ball; every image clear in her mind, then vanishing into darkness when the lights had dimmed and the tone had gone from jubilant to horrorstruck.

Why were all the memories of that—_existence_, that part of her past, so blurry and incomplete?

Idly, she observed a peculiar pattern of light on the shoulder of Raoul's jacket that looked like several diamond-shaped smudges. It vanished, and then flitted across again as they glided across the floor. She looked around quizzically for its source.

Her feet suddenly lost coordination, stumbling over the steps and twisting ungracefully. She nearly toppled over, but Raoul caught her against him with a gasp.

"Christine!" He grunted in alarm, helping her upright.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, breathing in sharply. "I think I need to sit down for a moment," she told him, already walking away.

Raoul gave her a startled look and followed hastily. "Are you all right?"

"I—feel faint," she said unoriginally. Sitting down on a settee in the lengthy hallway that stretched out into the west wing of the manse, she waved Raoul away. "I'll be fine in a moment. Why don't you go talk with Baron Marchand?"

Raoul eventually left, though reluctantly, and only after Christine reassured him several times over. As soon as his disappeared into the throng of guests, she erupted into shivers, rubbing her arms vigorously with her gloved hands.

She had looked up for the cause of the unusual lights, to find a luxurious chandelier suspended from the ceiling, directly above them. Its dazzling crystals had temporarily blinded her, and there were so many it seemed as though all the stars in the sky had been strung together and hung on the monumental decoration. She had been exceptionally lightheaded from the dancing, due to her temporary weakness after her ailment in the winter, and the chandelier had looked as though it was tumbling down towards her.

He's there…the— 

"Comtesse de Chagny!"

Her head swiveled in the direction of the delighted voice.

"Monsieur Marchand," she greeted the young man before her as warmly as she could. "Happy birthday."

He gave her a crooked smile, offering her his hand and raising her to her feet. "What has France come to, when a woman such as you sits alone in a ball!" She laughed softly, feeling a weight lifted from her shoulders in his cheerful presence. His light brown hair was in a loose ponytail, and he wore a suit similar to that of Raoul's, along with most of the other men there. She supposed he was attractive enough for a lad his age, though a little unconventional. He had a narrow face and nose, with almond-shaped hazel eyes, and his thin lips were always parted in a lopsided grin. Though it was his boyish charm that often won the girls over.

Christine was six years his senior, however, and she had come to see him as a sort of younger brother.

They had met many times over the course of her holiday in Nice. She had been in town for nearly a month already, and Raoul had Baron Marchand and his only son over for lunch at least twice a week, if not more. The Baron was an elderly man, with a white curling mustache and a serious expression, quite the opposite of Dion, his son. He and Raoul often spoke of business and politics, and left Dion and Christine with each other for company.

Christine had immediately become fond of him. He was a true student of the arts, and seemed to sense that she was one too, though she had been out of contact with the art world since her marriage. He indulged her liberally about all the newest painters, musicians, performers and performances, and she lapped up every word like a thirsty animal. Once, he had even told her about the new Opera Grandiose opening soon in Toulouse, and asked her if she had ever visited the Paris Opera House, the one where that disaster with the fire and disappearing diva had occurred several years ago—what had its name been? Ah, but he could not remember what the papers had said.

No, she had never been there.

It was just as well, he had replied. There were rumours that it was haunted.

In a more recent encounter, he had informed her that he had been taking music lessons for the past two years, from a professional, and could play both the piano and organ.

"Perhaps you can hear me play sometime!" 

"_Perhaps…"_

"_Why, you've gone pale, Madame—would you like a drink?"_

"_It's just my chest cold, I'm fine, thank you, Monsieur."_

"_If you're sure…well, as I was saying, my teacher is, in my humble opinion, the greatest musician to ever live."_

"_That's quite a statement, Monsieur. What makes you say so?"_

"_Ah, but I can not put it in words, Madame! It is like he can play the language of love…it is true magic."_

Now, as the boy stood before her, his eyes glittered, and a horrible feeling of dread washed over her. "Yes?" She inquired, replying to his stare.

"Ah, Comtesse, you have lied to me!"

Christine would have smiled, if he had finished his sentence with anything else. She found it so very _French_, how he started every thing with an excited gasp as though what he had to say was undoubtedly the most thrilling thing you would ever hear.

"Lying to you?" She laughed feebly. "I beg to differ, Monsieur."

"Well, perhaps not _lied_, but kept something from me, nonetheless." He gave her a deeply hurt look, but his tone was jesting.

"Well, we are hardly bosom buddies, I can't be expected to tell you all my deepest darkest secrets," she retorted, smiling.

"Hardly a dark secret, _mon chou_. I was speaking with my father this morning, and your charming husband arose in our conversation. To make a long story short, I believe my father's exact words were: _'And it's no wonder, too, what with that opera singer wife of his!'_" He finished his narrative with a triumphant _'hah!'_ and Christine felt her knees weaken.

"So, Madame, I thought to myself, _'Why, surely the delightful Comtesse would never purposely keep something so relevant from me! Perhaps it slipped her mind? But, no, one does not forget such an important detail of one's past! Perhaps she was embarrassed? Mon dieu, I hope not in front of me!' _And so my thoughts went on in such a fashion. But, the fact and the matter is, my dear Comtesse, you have refrained from informing of a fact that a man such as myself would find most intriguing! And, to repay me, I insist that you come sing for me."

She heard herself shriek as he took a firm hold of her arm and led her from the hall, back into the ballroom, and then through an open doorway that opened up into what must be the parlor. She was amazed at how easily he pulled her along, while she was thrashing from side to side, trying to escape.

"I swear, Monsieur, I cannot sing—This is extremely—_Let me go, I tell you!_" Over the hired musicians and the chatter of the company, no one heard her frail cries. She plucked helplessly at his fingers, but they did not loosen their grasp. A few people stared as they moved through the quieter atmosphere of the parlor, and Christine thought they must look quite an odd pair. He was grinning joyfully with anticipation, and her face was contorted in furious dismay.

He finally came to a stop, and Christine wrenched herself from his hold, gasping for breath. "That," she wheezed, scrambling for words, "was entirely inappropriate." Leaning against the nearest surface, she tried to calm her palpitating heart, only to find her hand rested on an eerily familiar-feeling surface. "Oh, mon dieu," she whispered frantically, stepping backwards.

Her mind flooded with painful recollection as she took in the magnificent instrument before her. She had never thought to lay eyes on a pipe organ again; she had feared just seeing one would somehow suck her back into the past. And this one very much did. She could hear heart-wrenching melodies echoing in her ears. She could see the shadow of a man, hunched over the ivory keys, looking up at her with unendurable grief. Her skin tingled at the touch of unseen hands.

"I cannot sing," she told Dion mechanically, her wide eyes never leaving the organ. He chuckled.

"We shall see, Comtesse, we shall see." He turned to the curious guests in the room, who had come to relax from the dancing. "Messieurs, Madames, I shall now play for you, accompanied by my dear friend: the Comtesse de Chagny."

"_Dion_," she murmured angrily, so outraged by his forwardness that she forgot formalities. She would not, _could not_ sing for him, much less any of the guests.

"Christine," he replied mockingly. "I believe you are acquainted with the song I am about to play."

"Dion, this is ridiculous." She imagined she looked quite childish, standing there with her fists clenched at her sides and her features set in a stubborn, frustrated expression. But she did not deter from her protestations. "I am _not_ a performer; perhaps I once was, but no longer!"

He looked at her in vacant glee, as though he had not heard a thing she said. "From the beginning of the aria, then."

Her resistance melted away as she was again catapulted into the past. "What did you say?" She asked breathily.

He did not reply, for he had begun to play. She let out a strangled sob as she recognized the tune, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Stop this, Dion," she insisted, her voice hoarse. "Stop at once!" It was helpless, he continued.

Of course she was acquainted with the song, she had sung it, in her first performance as leading soprano—in _Hannibal_.

She closed her eyes as the tension eased out of her body. The familiar music calmed her, filling her with an indescribable sensation that left her feeling invigorated and more—alive, than she had in years. It was as though she witnessed the first flower bloom after a decade of winter.

Something inside her burst, traveling upward and onward until—

"_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll try."_

The astonished, admiring faces of the guests faded away and she was onstage before a full audience. She could see the glitter of the set out of the corner of her eye, and the encouraging smiles of the performers behind the curtain.

"_When you find, that once again you long to take your heart back and be free—if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me…"_

Her sweet voice filled the theatre, reaching each shadowy corner and spreading through the audience like a wave. She sung as though she had never stopped.

"_We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea—but if you can still remember, stop and think of me…"_

A red rose tied with a ribbon awaited her in her dressing room, she knew. She could already smell its rich scent from here.

"_Think of all the things we've shared and seen—don't think about the way things might have been…"_

Thousands of roses, she decided, as the overpowering scent drowned out her thoughts.

"_Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do—There will never be a day when I won't think of you!"_

۞

"I'm certain that he--" Raoul paused in mid-sentence. He had just imagined he had heard the strangest thing…He thought he had heard Christine singing—singing the song that had first summoned up his old feelings for her, four years before.

But his ears were simply playing tricks on him. Christine did not sing any more—in fact, she had probably forgotten how. She barely even _spoke_ these days.

Her voice sounded absolutely heavenly when she sang that song…

"Why, who on earth could that be?" The Baron's mustache twitched, and his eyes narrowed in thought. "Do you hear that?"

Raoul stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"Can't you hear that singing?" The Baron asked impatiently.

"Singing?" Raoul paled. "You hear it as well?"

"Of course I hear it, I'm not deaf just yet!" He shook his head. "Well, do you recognize the voice?"

"I--"

"You know, come to think of it, it sounds very much like your--"

"Excuse me!" Raoul dashed away before the Baron could finish his sentence. He weaved through the crowds, muttering apologies as he bumped into other guests. Many of them had cocked their heads, listening to the mysterious voice, only horrifying Raoul more. He didn't know why, but the thought of Christine raising her voice in song frightened him beyond comprehension.

He was halfway across the floor, heading towards her voice, when the orchestra appointed for the gala even ceased their playing to hear Christine better. When the band's music was taken away, Raoul realized that an organ was playing along with her.

"Damnation!" He cried, doubling his effort to get through.

۞

Erik could not help but grin jauntily as he approached the doors of Marchand Manor. _Your first social engagement, and you're fashionably late._ He chuckled richly as the butler opened the door for him.

His smile quickly faded.

He would think, that after two years of teaching Dion and four years of trying to forget, he would recognize the player of the organ first. But it was not so.

The first thing he recognized, knew beyond a doubt, was the owner of the remarkable, angelic voice resounding throughout the residence. His muscles stiffened, his eyes narrowed, his breath stopped in his throat. Later, he would not be able to remember which feeling came first, the blinding rage or the sickening age-old adoration.

But they came crashing into him nonetheless, tempests of emotion, and he felt his insides churn and coil in their wake. Tears of—sorrow? Remembrance? He knew not—flooded his eyes and blurred his vision. His knees buckled, and he would have collapsed there on the floor if the observant footman had not grabbed hold of his shoulders.

"Let go of me, fool," Erik snarled, and the man jumped away at the harshness of his tone. "Where are the guests?" He demanded.

"They—They're--"

"Oh, never mind, I shall find out _myself_!" With a disgusted sneer, he darted off in the direction he though the voice was coming from, all the while cursing himself for showing up after all.

۞

"_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade—they have their seasons, so do we. But please promise me, that sometimes, you will think of me!"_

She came to the end, her last note spiraling and awing all who heard. All of the guests had crowded into the parlor now, eager to see who was performing so beautifully. They watched her, mesmerized for a moment after she finished, then erupted into applause.

Christine took in a shaky breath, smiling in amazement at Dion. He returned the smile, equally as astonished, then cried out as she literally fell onto the bench next to him. "Comtesse! Catch your breath, please, do not push yourself!" He helped her sit upright, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly.

She looked up as Raoul suddenly burst through the front of the crowd. He was panting and his hair was disheveled. His look was one of terror and bewilderment.

She opened her mouth, but her voice now was caught in her throat. She just looked at him, her eyes swelling with tears. _What have I done?_

"Your friend has the makings of a diva, Dion." All heads turned as a man adorned in black stepped out from the corner. "One might wonder who her teacher was, to create such an extraordinary voice."

All the feeling left Christine's body, and her ears rung.

_Masquerade…but a face will still pursue you…_

A look of pure loathing distorted Raoul's features. She saw him reach to his side, and she desperately raised her hand to stop him. Both men turned to face her.

"Phantom," she breathed, and fainted against the organ.

A horrible, reverberating clang was emitted from the instrument as her body pushed down dozens of keys. It was the only noise in the entire house, as hundreds of guests observed the strange masked man, the Comtesse that sang like an angel, and her infuriated husband that now cocked and aimed his pistol.

۞

**Author's Note: **Next chapter up in roughly a week!.


	3. Detachment

۞

_**Chapter Two:**_

_Detachment_

۞

_A look of pure loathing distorted Raoul's features. She saw him reach to his side, and she desperately raised her hand to stop him. Both men turned to face her._

"_Phantom," she breathed, and fainted against the organ._

_A horrible, reverberating clang was emitted from the instrument as her body pushed down dozens of keys. It was the only noise in the entire house, as hundreds of guests observed the strange masked man, the Comtesse that sang like an angel, and her infuriated husband that now cocked and aimed his pistol._

۞

The sight of the Vicomte surprised Erik, which in turn surprised him again, as he should have realized that wherever Christine went, her meddlesome husband would surely follow. He was astonishingly levelheaded while standing before the Vicomte—no, Comte, he corrected himself—his rival of so many years ago, the man he had detested inexpressibly for years. But now, the only thing he felt was disgust.

Erik was already coming towards the Comte when the distraught man raised his firearm. He moved so quickly and effectively to knock the weapon from the man's grasp, that the guests would later question if they had even seen a pistol at all.

"_Idiot,_" Erik whispered venomously, right next to his ear. "Do not tell me you still attempt to be the knight in shining armor, not after all this time."

Raoul flushed angrily, squirming in Erik's closeness. "And do not tell me, _Phantom_, that you still believe you can frighten me with your _pathetic _critique."

Erik took a step away, staring intensely at the Comte.

"No," he answered thoughtfully, and Raoul blinked in momentary bewilderment. He had not expected such a conceding reply. The appearance of the most prominent figure from his past _had_, Raoul admitted to himself, terrified him—not for his own person, but for Christine, who he had known would not take it well. Her limp form, now being supported by the young Marchand, proved him correct.

"Dion," Erik rasped, moving forward hesitantly. "Is she—is it only-" The hardness in his eyes had vanished and been replaced by an overwhelmed, disoriented haze.

"She has only fainted," Dion replied somewhat breathlessly, still seated facing the organ, his torso twisted around awkwardly so he could hold Christine. "Perhaps we should-" he gestured pointedly to the guests, still crowded into the room, rapt with attention. They did not budge as Dion waved his arm for them to leave.

With a cold, cheerless smile, Erik turned and gave them and bowed flourishingly. "My _dear_ people, the Comtesse has fainted under the stress of performing, unused to it after such a long time without practice." Under his derisive tone, the audience began to stir uncomfortably. "I am sure she would appreciate privacy while she recovers."

He raised himself to his full height, and gazed at them coldly. They stared back at him blankly. "_Out!_" He finally bellowed, and they scattered like insects, conversation bubbling up as they reemerged into the ballroom.

Erik, looking maliciously satisfied, reared to face Dion and Raoul once again. "You realize, Dion, that I will not attend another of your ridiculous social events after this?"

۞

After they had closed the parlor doors and laid Christine down on the coach, an awkward silence had settled between the three companions. Raoul had sat down, watching his wife with vacant eyes, and Dion sat next to her, dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth he had gotten from the kitchens.

Erik paced uneasily behind the divan where Christine rest, his thoughts hectic. This encounter did not have to change anything; he could stay long enough to assure that Christine—_the Comtesse_, was all right, and then leave for his house and forget the evening altogether. He smiled grimly to himself. _Yes, and perhaps the day after that the Parisian police will give you a public apology. _He snorted. Both were equally unlikely.

"Phantom…" 

Is that how she remembered him, as a murdering ghost? He did not want her to think of him as an angel, or her father's spirit; but even those titles would have been preferable over the longstanding nom de plume that the Opera's inhabitants had bestowed upon him. And what was that unidentifiable emotion that had flickered in her eyes, just before she lost consciousness? Fear? Sorrow? _Relief_? Her traumatized countenance would come to him in his dreams, he knew.

Erik suddenly noticed that Dion had been glancing fervently from him to the Comte, hoping for an explanation. Well, he would certainly not give one. Let Monsieur de Chagny tell his side of the story, and let Dion be the judge of where Erik would spend the night; in his own bed or behind bars.

Finally, the disconcerting pressure was too much, and he blurted out, "are you going to inform me of what I've been brought into, or hope I revive our precious Comtesse and happily dismiss the past half hour for a dream?"

Raoul, who had had his elbows resting on his knees and his chin in his hands, straightened and glowered at Erik. Erik returned the look easily. "I did not think he would have told you," the Comte said slowly, his tone accusing. "I would not either, if I was a _murderer_."

Dion narrowed his eyes, and Erik hissed between his teeth, his hate for Christine's lover surging up through his chest as he exhaled.

"Murderer?" Dion repeated. He glanced curiously at his teacher. "Is it true?"

Erik, relieved at Dion's permissiveness, looked away without answering. It was the closest to humiliated he had ever felt, since the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_…Pathetically enough, he had wanted to uphold a decent image for this student, as he could not have for his first. "He does not need to know it all," Erik said to the wall, jaw clenched.

"Does he not?" Raoul stood. "Are you so sure? I'd think he would be entitled to know, as he welcomes you into his home. Whatever relationship it is that you two possess, it has obviously not existed for more than four years."

Dion set down the cloth he had been dabbing Christine's brow with. "No, I have only known him for two years. And he has not shown any desire to murder me," he informed the Comte wryly, his tone then turning grave as he continued. "He has become an invaluable friend, in fact, so I suggest you are prudent in your accusations."

Erik felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Dion was entirely serious, but the rapid leave of the Comte's confidence was laughable. His amusement was nowhere to be found, however, when the surpassed man spoke again.

"Very well, Monsieur; then I must ask you if you have ever heard of the mystery of the _Phantom of the Opera_."

Dion's brow furrowed in thought, and he replied, "Was that not the affair of the Paris Opera House fire? I didn't hear much, as I was young, and my father was often away in the service. I recall that it was said to be haunted, and a young chorus girl vanished for several days." He looked down at the now sleeping form of Christine as she stirred slightly, blinked, and looked back up at the Comte with an expression of dawning realization.

Erik gave the parlor doors a fleeting look, something in him expected the police to burst in at any moment and take him away. He desperately wanted to reach over and cover the Comte's mouth, somehow stop Dion from hearing the rest. He did not want this poison to spread into his new life, not ever…The Comte was once again destroying all he had created for himself.

"Yes, Christine was the chorus girl," Raoul answered Dion's unspoken question. Then he gestured to Erik with a loose wave of his arm. "And _this_ is the man who haunted the Opera Populaire, not a ghost, but an obsessive madman, fighting for the affections of a young girl's heart."

Erik was blinded with rage at Raoul's words and disdainful tone, and he roared, "_It was for her!_" He clenched his fists, seething.

The Comte raised his eyebrows, as though Erik's denial had proved all he had just said. Dion, who had blanched at the volume of Erik's voice, was stoic.

"I saved her from him, and in his fury he burnt down the Opera House." Raoul finished bitterly, and massaged his temple.

Dion had always thought the Comte de Chagny a generally mild person, and this new, cynical side of him was astounding. Erik must have done more than just love Christine, and burn down the theatre. He must've done something to the Comte on a more personal level, for the man to hate him so passionately; a hate that appeared to be mutual.

The Baron's son was not surprised at Erik's hot bloodedness; his music had already expressed to Dion what kind of a man he was. His emotions were raw and ready, simmering just below the surface until something—or someone—brought them to a boil.

"He killed countless people," murmured the Comte. "Innocent people, all for a silly mask."

Erik choked on his breath, and stepped forward so he was facing the Comte directly from across the couch. "I regret my actions to this day, Monsieur," he said, his voice hoarse and wavering. "But, for the life of you, you could never even begin to comprehend what brought me to it-" he was staring daggers into the Comte, "-you could never understand that level of suffering."

"Do not speak to me of suffering," Raoul started, and then was stopped in mid-sentence as Erik shouted wordlessly in ire. With the quickness he had shown earlier, he swung his fist and smashed one of the windows that looked out onto the gardens.

Glass crunched beneath his feet as he whirled around to face the Comte again. "_Be silent!_" His one uncovered cheek was flushed, and his breath ragged. His usually slicked back hair had come loose and strayed in front of his burning eyes.

Raoul, incensed by Erik's violence, yelled back, "_Heartless monster!"_ He walked quickly around where Dion sat, to face Erik head on. "You claimed to love her, yet you kept her locked up as a _prisoner_!"

"I loved her more than you could _know_," Erik cried, his voice weakening. "And I let her go." A sob escaped his throat, and he stumbled back. "I never kept her prisoner; I offered her all I had." He pressed a hand to his eyes. "I set her free."

۞

"_It was for her!"_

Christine drew in an uneven breath, struggling to maintain control of her emotions. She had awoken to the sound of Erik bellowing, and her memory came flooding back to her. She went rigid, keeping her eyes tightly shut and praying no one would notice she had awoken. They had to still be in the parlor, as she could hear the muffled sounds of the band and the company just outside the room. She felt someone gently dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth, which she had at first assumed was Raoul, but then had heard him from somewhere to her left.

"_I saved her from him, and in his fury he burnt down the Opera House."_

_Oh, Raoul, no…_

She had been engulfed with guilt when her old tutor had seemed to materialize out of shadow, as though one element of her past, her singing, had summoned another. His somber eyes connected with hers, and seemed to beg her for forgiveness, told her he knew he had made a mistake intruding into her life once again.

By this she was startled. She thought—she _knew _it should be her pleading for his clemency. She had nearly destroyed him four years before, and the guilt had in turn nearly destroyed her. But Raoul had helped her move on, and she had tried to forget his shattered expression when she gave him back his ring. She had tried to disregard the feel of their first and last kiss, the odd innocence of it all, though he was a murderer and she an orphan, and the untainted sweetness of lips that had never before been loved.

The horrible nightmares subsided for almost a year, and then returned full force after…

She would wake up trembling with pleasure some nights, and shrieking with horror others. Raoul looked just as exhausted and anxious as her, most days, and it was for his sake that she eventually suggested they sleep in separate rooms. He had agreed without argument, but she had not missed the hurt in his eyes. Perhaps she had not suggested only for his sake.

It was akin to the look in Erik's when she left him. She remembered her hostile thoughts, as though they had only stirred in her mind yesterday.

_I am only a door away; do not act as though you will never see me again._

_Do not act as though you know pain…_

She had been so lost in her own misery that she had not realized he had lost a child as well.

Her face grew hot as tears built up under her eyelids.

"I set her free."

She slid her feet off the couch and sat up, as Dion gave a startled cry. She heard the pieces of broken glass grind against each other as two pairs of feet whirled around behind her. Her back to the sound, she pushed off the cushions to try and get up, but her knees gave way beneath her.

Suddenly overcome, she put her head in her hands and began to weep.

۞

Erik stared at Christine's back despondently. It seized up with each of her sobs, and then slumped into shivering, a miserable pattern that he watched in horrified fascination.

The Comte had immediately rushed and kneeled before her, trying ineffectively to grasp one of her hands. She only pulled them away and sobbed harder.

Dion got up and moved respectfully away from the couch, watching the couple with a mixture of pity and shrewdness.

"Christine," the Comte said desperately, "Christine, darling, I'm here…"

Erik felt his insides prickle with jealousy at the intimacy that the Comte used with her.

"No," Christine managed between convulsions, "no, Raoul, you aren't…"

Somehow she found the strength to stand, Raoul hurriedly copying her movements and steadying her. She pushed him away, gently, as soon as she found her footing, and maneuvered around him. Erik found himself rooted to the spot as she came to stand before him.

Her skirts were wrinkled where she had lain on them, and her hairpins had fallen out, releasing her curls in tousled waves. Her cheeks were hollow, and there were dark circles under her eyes from many sleepless nights. Her skin was white as bone. She resembled a beautiful corpse, he thought in alarm. She was merely a shell of the Christine Daaé that resided in the Opera Populaire.

She was also a woman. The Christine that had left him years ago had been a girl, young and in love. Now she stood facing him as a woman, with eyes that had truly seen, a body that had truly felt. He could have dealt with the uncertain, impetuous teenager that he had known before. _This_ Christine, he had not been prepared for.

He absorbed every angle of her; nearly quivering with the sensation of having the woman he loved at arm's length, closer than he had ever hoped to be to her again. She seemed to be presenting herself to him, waiting for some sort of evaluation. She wringed her hands nervously, avoiding his eyes.

"Christine," he said huskily, and was silent, cherishing the foreign sensation of her name on his lips.

She immediately looked up, and their gazes locked. Every breath in the room was drawn in and held, as a connection severed long ago was forged anew. They could almost see the bolts of electricity passing between them, some cryptic message being sent back and forth. The profundity of their union was so vast that it frightened them, and they shuddered in unison.

"Forgive me," Christine whispered.

Erik gaped. Forgive her? Abruptly, he felt his anger returning. He had placed his heart in her hands, to take or to return, and she had instead crushed it beneath her feet. He had wronged her, and he knew it, but he suddenly could not forgive her.

He stepped back, eyes wide, and slowly shook his head. "You have no hold on me," he said harshly, but his voice lacked conviction.

_No hold…Comtesse de Chagny._

He spun around, and vanished out the broken window into the night.

۞

Raoul's heart was beating hard in his chest, threatening to leap out and escape him. His pulse sped up erratically.

_Say something, anything._

He had barely had control over his voice, as he spat indictments at the Phantom, filled with hostility that he did not know was in him. Now he struggled to keep himself from releasing what was left of it on his wife.

_You show him mercy, you beg him for forgiveness, when he threatened to take your life—when he threatened to take **mine**! In all my suffering, you only distanced yourself, and yet you move closer to this master of all evils…what have I ever done to make you push me away?_

_Christine!_

"Christine-"

"Oh, Raoul, let us leave," she begged him, finally averting her traumatized gaze from the window to look at him. "Please, take me home!"

She reached for him, her arms stretching like an infant waiting to be held. He came forward compliantly, and she buried her face in his shirt.

۞

Dion was quite dumbfounded at the intensity of the scene he had just witnessed. He felt rather as though he should have left the room, or somehow blocked out the words that were so clearly not meant for his ears. But, in any case, he was a Frenchman, and could not resist the lure of romance. He had listened quite well.

So his remarkable teacher had been a fugitive all along. Did he hate him for lying? No. He could not bring himself to it. Even his father admired Erik, and to gain the trust of Baron Marchand was no small feat. The musician must truly be a changed man…

Or perhaps, Dion mused, he had never changed, and society had been the antagonist? For there was more than guilt in Erik's compositions, so much more. Every emotion humanity had ever known was woven into the notes, the verses. His songs told stories without using words. It was a talent, a gift Dion hoped to receive one day, after many years of Erik's tutoring—if Erik would agree to still instruct him after this disaster…

"My apologies for interrupting your celebrations, Monsieur," the Comte said, stirring Dion from his thoughts. "My wife and I will be taking our leave shortly."

The coldness in his voice was disquieting, and Dion wondered what the man was playing at, thinking they could return to formalities after such an occurrence. Ever the gentleman, Dion nodded accordingly and offered to summon their carriage. The Comte shook his head and, supporting the silently weeping Christine with an arm around her waist, left the room.

۞

The fire hissed and crackled, golden flames licking the corners of charred parchment. Note after note of music dissolved into ash as more and more sheets were thrown into the grate. The yellow glow cast coiling, twisting patterns on every surface in the otherwise darkened room.

Erik stood before the hearth, an inferno of his own burning in the back of his eyes. His face was impassive, a flawless disguise for the rampant emotions roiling inside of him. He let another piece flutter just above the fatal grip of the blaze, then watched with a cruel pleasure as it too shriveled into nothing. It was all the music he had written in the past four years, every note reeking of Christine, of bitter heartbreak. He never wanted to see it again.

He had never wanted to see _her_ again, either.

With an exasperated sigh, he dropped the whole pile of parchment into the fire, nearly putting it out and turning the room pitch-black. But darkness was nothing new to him, and he made his way easily around the barely visible furniture, pushing open the doors to the balcony. They rattled under the impact, then thumped against the walls and bounced back, shutting behind him. Leaning against the railing, he inhaled the first calm breath he had taken in hours.

He had returned to his house with bloodied fists and a fierce scowl for anyone who came near him. He darted up the stairs and stormed into his room, immediately drawing the curtains and lighting the fireplace. At first, he had been hurling the sheets in with disgust. Then, after the butler knocked several times on the door, which he had locked, he managed to control himself, and slowed to letting each sheet burn on its own.

Tears streamed from his eyes unstoppably, the only spout for his feelings, and he emitted cracked sobs from time to time, his chest popping up and down awkwardly.

He was amazed at how collected he had been when Christine approached him, compared to how he felt. He was sure the beating of his heart was echoing of the walls, and that his mask was slipping from his face under her gaze. He had been so vulnerable, so unprotected from her, that she could reach into his chest at any time, and steal back his love.

God, he could not let it happen.

The sea breeze floated pleasantly over his burning skin, each droplet of sweat shimmering in the starlight. He was so out of place in this haven, a monster wandering halls of beauty.

For the first time in four years, he missed his home under the Opera house, how it had truly belonged to him, and he to it. He wished he had never brought Christine down into his home, so that they could have continued their lessons, and perhaps she would have stayed. Perhaps they would still be there; she a star and he still her teacher, her voice more glorious than either of them could ever imagine. He longed for the forbidden past with a horrible wrench of his gut.

He slowly sunk down to sit on the tile, leaning against the balustrade and rocking back and forth gently. The moon was attractive, but it was cold. He craved to return to the candlelit darkness, the warmth of the perpetual night he had created…

And, not for the first time in four years, he felt lonely.

"_Angel, speak, what endless longings…" _He clutched the bars of the railing tightly, sobbing. "Christine…"

_Echo in this whisper…?_

A sudden dizziness overcame him, and he shook his head, trying to rid his sight of the black dots that appeared.

"_Angel…Angel…endless—what endless longings…?" _

And then he sunk into the blackness he had lusted after just moments before.

۞

_Christine smiled as she realized where she was: back underneath the Opera Populaire. The candles were all lit, and the Phantom was seated at his organ, waiting for her. He turned, and beckoned her with a finger._

"_Yes, Angel, I am coming…" She pushed her legs through the cold water, her smile faltering as she felt something brush against her thigh. "Angel?" She said nervously. "What was that?"_

_He only motioned for her to keep coming. She waded farther, and felt it again. "Is that you?" She asked him, as he sat there working on his music. He did not reply._

_She reached into the water, her hands wandering blindly around her knees. They brushed something soft, and she immediately grasped it._

"_What-" She pulled it out of the lake to reveal a tiny human arm; the arm of an infant. "No!" She screamed, and dropped it again. She looked up, tears swelling in her eyes, to find it was Raoul in the Phantom's place. He stood and grinned at her, reaching out a hand._

"_Come, Christine." Something in his tone frightened her._

"_What was it? Where has he gone?" She forced her arms back into the water, feeling desperately for anything. She had to save whatever was beneath the surface…She had to find him…_

_This time, it was a grown man's arm she pulled out, and then a shoulder, and then a head. The face was Erik's, unmasked and lifeless. There was a bloody gaping hole where his heart should have been._

"_Raoul, you did this!" She cried, stumbling as she held the dead man to her chest._

"_But you did this, Christine," he whispered sinisterly. She glanced up to see he was holding a baby. It was unnaturally small, and its face was tinged with blue. It was just as dead as the Phantom. "A life for a life…"_

"_No!"_

"_A life for a life, Christine. You kill something I love, I kill something you love…isn't that fair? Isn't it?"_

"_Raoul!"_

"_Isn't it?"_

"Raoul!"

Christine awoke in her bed, gasping for breath. Her cheeks were damp with tears, and the blankets had wound themselves around her flailing limbs.

"It's not fair…" She murmured, looking around wildly, momentarily unsure of where she was. "Not fair!"

She collapsed into her pillow, pounding a small fist against the mattress. "Not fair…"

۞


	4. Hallucination

۞

_**Chapter Three:**_

_Hallucination_

۞

Dion had only ever once visited Erik at his home; the visit had been very short, and extremely pointless, as Dion's tutor did not seem to like callers intruding into his personal life. He had barely spoken five words to Dion the entire time, and the boy resignedly left, giving up on ever succeeding to make Erik look upon him as more than a student. He had also sworn never to visit Erik's house again without the man's permission.

But this was urgent. Erik had not shown up for Dion's lesson, four days after the catastrophic gala, and the young aristocrat was quite terrified that his treasured teacher had decided to quit.

So now he stood before Rue Manor, titled after the last name Erik had jestingly given himself (Dion had always thought Erik had a peculiar sense of humour), sweating profusely and hoping dearly that his mentor, if he had indeed quit, did not use physical means to rid himself of Dion's company. Dion had been concentrating hard on the polished knocker, trying to avert his mind from any such thoughts, when the door swung open.

Imagine Dion's surprise when he was met with a frantic embrace.

"Monsieur Marchand!" Beaumont, the man Dion remembered to be Erik's timid butler, exclaimed in relief. His sandy hair was mussed and his face haggard, but each exhausted feature seemed to light up in Dion's presence. "Mon dieu, it is good that you have come. He has been bedridden for days now, refusing a doctor-"

"Beaumont," Dion grunted, gently extracting himself from the man's grasp and stepping inside. "I cannot hope to understand you when you speak so quickly. Come, let us sit down and-"

"Sit down," Beaumont breathed, his jaw dropping as though the very idea was the most salacious thing he had ever heard. "No time, Monsieur! You must come immediately—the master is ill!"

Dion tilted his head slightly; quite sure he had misheard the servant. "Come again?"

"Monsieur de la Rue is _sick_ with _fever_," Beaumont said, as slowly as he could in his nervous state.

Erik, ill? Dion stood absolutely still for a moment, staggered at the news. Erik had always seemed invincible to him, the strongest of the strong, some sort of divine presence…a guardian angel, almost. To have something as simple and human as a _fever_ confine him to bed—it was not a thought that had ever crossed Dion's mind.

"How—how long has he been ailing?"

"Since Wednesday evening, Monsieur: three nights."

He had been sick since Dion's birthday.

_You obtuse swine, Marchand-_

"Have he seen a doctor?"

"We sent for one, two days ago," he paused awkwardly, "the man was not received well, is all I can say."

Dion nodded understandingly. Erik was not one for sympathy, or submitting to the care of others. "Let me see him."

"Are you sure that would be wise…?" Beaumont questioned, his voice wavering.

"Quite."

With a frightened nod, Beaumont motioned for Dion to follow.

The butler led him through the west wing of the house silently, so Dion was able to think.

He wondered if Erik's servants only tried to care for him because they were terrified of him, or if they truly were worried about his health. He knew Erik only had two others in his employment besides Beaumont, and he must know them all to a certain degree, to trust them with the care of his estate. He rather hoped that they felt more than fear where Erik was concerned, as something told Dion the man had received enough of that to last him _two_ lifetimes.

So then, assuming they were concerned for his health, was it his condition that put Beaumont in such a state of anxiety?

"How bad is he?" Dion wondered aloud, and Beaumont glanced back briefly.

"He has not risen, or even regained consciousness, since we found him, excepting when the doctor tried to tend to him," the butler informed him, and Dion was quite sure there was a hint of worry in his voice. "Ah, but here we are. You may see for yourself."

He stopped in front of a thick mahogany door, and retrieved a candle that rested on the small table next to it. Lighting the wick with shaking hands, he handed it to Dion.

"I must warn you, before you enter, Monsieur: the master often speaks in his delirium. None of us here know what any of his talk means, but perhaps you will be able to decipher it for us."

He grasped the door handle, but, instead of turning it, looked back at Dion and said in what could very well have been an accusing tone, "He was, after all, returning from your party the evening he fell ill."

Dion swallowed, and, clutching the candle tightly, entered the darkened room.

Heavy crimson curtains had been pulled over the windows, and everything was consumed in shadow. The candle flame flickered as Dion shut the door behind him, and peered into the blackness. He could just make out the outline of a four-poster bed, and a writhing form tangled in the white sheets.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, and, watching his step, he moved to the end of the bed. Harsh, gasping breaths reached his ears, and he let out a soft murmur of despair as he beheld the man before him.

Erik was thrashing around violently, tossing from side to side, his face distorted in pain and grief. It seemed as though glistening sweat had been painted on to cover his entire torso, every inch shining with perspiration. His eyes were closed, but Dion could see them move behind his eyelids, darting back and forth in distress.

Ever present, the white mask seemed to gleam in the shadows, its sinister expression never changing to suit the troubled countenance beneath it, as the candlelight made its curves cast eerie shapes. Dion shivered involuntarily as the hole for Erik's eye seemed to cease its movement and stare directly at him.

Suddenly, he was tempted to reach over and tear the horrific accessory from Erik's face. Immediately he was ashamed of himself for even thinking to invade the man's privacy in such a way. He had once asked Erik to remove the mask, wondering why he wore it, and Erik had replied in a furious purr that Dion found more fear inflicting than his thunderous shouts. He had forbidden Dion to ever ask that of him again, if he wished for Erik to continue teaching him. Dion had hastily sworn that he would not.

But now…the man was lost in hallucinations, and he would never know if Dion slipped it off for a moment. Somehow, the younger man knew the answer to Erik's past lay underneath the leather; the answer to this triangle between he and the Chagnys existed. It could help Dion _help Erik_, if he _only_ knew…

Dion placed the candle on the bedside table. Inhaling deeply, he reached forward and peeled the mask from Erik's face.

_Mon dieu._

He recoiled, dropping the mask in his shock, and his knees nearly failing him as Erik cried out. He sat up, clawing at his face, and then fell back against the pillow, without opening his eyes. He had not woken up.

Dion released a shaky breath and moved forward cautiously, retrieving the mask from the floor.

He had thought, maybe a scar, a tattoo, perhaps even nothing, knowing Erik's eccentricities; but he had not expected this.

All of the right side of Erik's face looked as though it had been held in a fire, part of the hair gone and the flesh unnaturally red. The skin was hideously puckered, and his cheek sagged under his eye. In some places giant welts had risen, and the thick outlines of his veins bulged out of his temple.

_So this is what you have been hiding from me, Erik._

Dion could have wept in sympathy for this man, a genius cursed with such a deformity. He could never have been accepted by the public, or known the love of a woman. How had he survived childhood? Dion felt sure Erik had not known family. Had he ever known any human affection at all?

"Christine, how-"

Dion nearly dropped Erik's disguise yet again as the man spoke out in his fitful sleep. His voice was broken from crying.

_Christine,_ Dion realized suddenly, _he had loved her…Of course…_

And she had refused him…for love of the Comte de Chagny? But she had not shown any of the hate the Comte seemed to have for Erik; rather, she had seemed heartbroken. He needed to know more about what happened between Erik and the Comtesse, before he could try to help his teacher any more.

And if the man would not consent to a doctor's treatment, perhaps he would consent to treatment from the woman he had loved…the woman he _still_ loved, perhaps?

Smiling sadly, he gently put the mask back on. He knew Erik too well to fear him for a physical malformation. Dion would be damned if this was God's way of punishing Erik for any sin, or the Devil's way of loving him. He would not be as cruel as the rest of the world; he would not hate a man for something he was not responsible for. And he would prove that to Erik, when the time came.

He picked up the candle and moved over to the door. Before opening it to leave, he turned back to look at Erik one last time. Oddly enough, Dion found him much less intimidating now that he knew what the mask hid, now that things made sense.

"Á bientôt," he murmured, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Your next visitor will be much more attractive, my friend, I promise you."

۞

Christine's skin was burning. She could feel fire eating away at it, bit by bit. Why was no one helping her? _Please, water, anyone! _She tried to cry, but her voice failed her. Visions of dancing flames passed in front of her eyes, and then disappeared in a white flash as another wave of heat consumed her. She was being cooked alive in some giant oven. She was in _Hell_.

_Christine…_

She could hear the echo of a voice, somewhere beyond the fires.

_Christine…_

She turned away from the blaze, trying to somehow shield her body as her flesh was charred, slowly blackening in the fires.

_Comtesse!_

Comtesse? The flames shied away slightly. Why would she be called by her title?

"Comtesse!"

Then, the heat was gone in one great wave, and a delicious cool washed over her.

"Comtesse, please, it is near noon…"

Hesitantly, Christine opened one eye. She opened the other.

Adèle was leaning over her, the bedspread that she had just pulled off Christine's sleeping form clutched tightly in her hands. "I _am_ sorry, Madame, but the Comte wishes you to join him for a late breakfast. He did not want to wake you, but it is getting rather late…" She trailed off uncertainly at the startled look in Christine's eyes.

"Are you all right, Madame?"

"Quite all right—just fine, thank you, Adèle," Christine mumbled, massaging her arms gingerly. Only a tingling sensation remained from the unbearable heat of her dream. "How late did you say it was?"

"Near noon, Comtesse. Monsieur Marchand, the Baron's son, has already come and gone, hoping to see you. He left a note, but-"

All traces of drowsiness vanished at the mention of the name Marchand. "The Baron's son?" She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I can't see him." She got to her feet, balancing shakily for a moment, and then moving over to the window.

The skies were overcast that day, which was rare in Nice. The white light streaming through the clouds made Christine's face seem even paler than it was. The circles under her eyes had only deepened, and she constantly had a knot in her throat, as though her voice was protesting at her abuse of it. She had not been ready to sing, not after so long.

In fact, her whole self was protesting. She had spent the last three days languishing in the Chagny household, Raoul watching on in helplessness as she refused to go out, and rarely ate. Her sleep was sporadic, and when she did give in to it, her slumber was rocked with perverse nightmares.

"Madame, he was desperate—will you at least read his note?" Adèle gave her an imploring look. "It would be good for you to get some fresh air, perhaps you and the Comte could take a walk and visit the Marchands?"

Startled at the concern in the maid's voice, Christine nodded. "I will see the note."

"Would you like to get dressed first?"

"I—I suppose."

She chose a gown of grey satin with black lace trim, and a square collar. Her maid had protested feebly at the colour, but Christine had pushed the objections away firmly. All her brightly coloured and pastel gowns seemed to insult her as she looked over them.

_And so many of them, too…_

Even after four years, her wealth as a Comtesse still startled her. Raoul spoiled her often, as undeserving as she was. She knew, with no small amount of guilt, that she was a horrible wife to him. He doted on her frequently and never protested when she wanted to stay home for the day, even if he had made plans for them. Their marriage had been slowly deteriorating for the past three years, and because of her.

If only she had given him a child, none of this ever would have happened.

She entered the dining room still lost in her miserable thoughts, and Raoul stood to welcome her.

"Good morning, Christine," he said, all false smiles and pretend cheer. She inclined her head, attempting to smile back.

"Good morning." He pulled out a seat for her next to him and she eased herself down.

She had liked the dining room immediately when she first toured the house. It had a high, domed ceiling that was painted a warm cream colour, with windows looking out to the sea. The table stretched along the whole room, with an elegant candelabrum in the center. Everything about it was exactly what an aristocrat's dining room had looked like in Christine's head when she was younger, and perhaps that was partly what her fondness was due to; it was as though she was living in a childhood dream.

"A note from Monsieur Marchand," a nasal voice said, and Christine winced. It was their butler, Deniau. Something about his slick appearance made her uncomfortable, and she had tried to avoid him while they had been here. Now, he handed her a small scrap of parchment, his thin, bony fingers holding it tightly for a moment before letting her take it. He stepped back with a sniff of his angular nose, and then left the room.

"He was acting strangely when he came by," Raoul commented, picking at his food with a fork. "He didn't even ask to see me when the butler told him you were still abed. He just scribbled down a note and rushed out."

"Oh," Christine mumbled blandly. She carefully unfolded the paper.

It read,

_Dear Comtesse,_

_I must apologize for the distressing events of several nights ago, and beg you to forgive me for meddling in affairs that were not mine to meddle in. I beseech you; please come to Marchand Manor as soon as is convenient, there is a matter of great importance that I must discuss with you. It involves Erik._

_Sincere Regards,_

_D. Marchand_

_Postscript: This is urgent!_

Christine read Dion's untidy scrawl several times over, wondering what on earth he could be so worried about. Who was this Erik that the issue at hand apparently involved? As peculiar as the note was, she was instantaneously curious.

"I shall have to make a visit to the Marchand residence, after breakfast," Christine informed her husband quietly. He looked up, startled.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"What—very well, darling. I shall ask Deniau to bring 'round the carriage. The footman will drive you."

Christine sighed in relief at Raoul's compliance, but a pinch of culpability still irritated her already strained mind.

"Might I ask _why_ you must go alone?" Christine did not miss the frigidness in his voice.

"Well, Dion—Monsieur Marchand, that is—only asks that I come…He does not mention…" She trailed off weakly.

"I see," Raoul muttered.

Christine bit her lip, afraid that anything she might say to improve the situation would only make it worse. She should have made up another excuse for going out.

They finished the meal in silence, Christine barely touching her plate, and Raoul eating his with stiff, jerking movements, as though he was forcing himself.

When he was done, she stood. "I should be leaving."

He observed her stand there with cold indifference. "Very well. Enjoy yourself."

"I—yes, I will," she stammered. She could feel his eyes drilling into her retreating back as she left the room.

۞

"I must thank you for coming," Dion said earnestly, as Christine came through the door. She gave him a wan smile, glancing around the room briefly. "I thought perhaps that my library would be more appropriate than the parlor."

Christine, relieved that she had not had to go near the organ again, nodded.

Dion's private library was a small, comfortable place, with several bookshelves, a fireplace, and countless cushioned chairs. He had been standing in front of the hearth when she entered, his expression grim.

Now, he turned and motioned for her to sit. She complied, brushing off her skirt nervously as he selected a chair across from her.

"Your note was urgent…" Christine began uncertainly. Dion nodded.

"Madame, firstly I must apologize for whatever grief I have caused you in the past week," his paused, sighing. "…And now, I must apologize for dragging you back into this mess."

Christine stiffened involuntarily. "What is it you want from me, monsieur?"

"I do not know entirely what went on with Erik and yourself in the past, but-"

"I'm sorry—but who is Erik?"

Dion gave her a puzzled look. "Why, Erik—my teacher—the man you encountered several evenings ago. Do you not know his name?"

"Erik," Christine murmured in amazement. Never had she thought that he might have a name, her tutor. He was the Angel of Music, what other name would he need? _Erik. _It suited him, somehow. "No, I—I never knew his name."

"Oh," Dion said, his brow furrowed. "Perhaps I was mistaken, then…"

"Why did you send for me?" Christine asked again.

Dion straightened up. "Madame, I will not waste my time trying to put this delicately. Erik is ill—dangerously so. He is refusing a doctor's treatment, and his fever has not broken. He has not regained consciousness for several days. If he does not receive treatment soon…"

Christine listened in numb horror as Dion trailed off forbiddingly.

_It is impossible. The Phantom did not fall ill…Did Erik?_

_Who _was_ Erik?_

"Surely, he will not—he cannot…"

_Die._

"He needs someone to take care of him, Comtesse." He looked her straight in the eye. "And, if I was _not_ mistaken after all, you are the only person who can."

"I dare not," she breathed. "Dion, if I see him again…"

"Christine, please." His eyes were wide and pleading. "If not for me, then for him. He means something to you still, I can see it."

"But-"

"Christine, _he speaks of you in his dreams_. Please, at least go and see him, just once."

۞

_You should not have come._

The house surprised her at first; somehow she had still been expecting a grotto-like shack, with dozens of candles and golden figurines. Instead, the inside of Erik's home was beautiful rich mahogany, with dark greens and blazing scarlet. Tastefully done, yet startling.

The butler, overly enthusiastic at a visitor, led her quickly through the halls, so she barely had any time to take it all in. Christine felt as though she was suffocating in the eerie silence of the manor.

She tried futilely to control her shaking hands. She could sense his presence in everything, the furniture, the paintings, the rugs; _Erik_ was all around her. She could feel his eyes on her, though she knew he was in his bed with fever; she could almost hear the man of so many years ago, using his angelic voice to lure her down, down, down…

"This is it, Madame." The butler held open the door. She gulped, staring into the darkness beyond.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely, and stepped in.

Her eyes immediately adjusted and caught sight of him. Tears immediately blurred her vision

His brow was knotted, and his still form shone with sweat. His chest pulsed up and down radically, his fists clenched, holding the sheets tightly at his sides. In the darkness of the room, she could still make out the mask. It was always there, unchanging.

She moved to the side of the bed, and kneeled down, resting a hand hesitantly on the mattress. "Oh, Erik…"

After four years of dreaming, of being haunted by his shattered countenance when she left him, she finally understood why he had stayed with her so long. Seeing him now, left to her mercy for the second time…She knew exactly why the guilt had eaten away at her mind.

Her heart was filled with only one thing as she looked upon him; not fear, not hate, not pity—but love.

_God, I never stopped loving you. I never told you._

Erik stirred suddenly, and his eyes fluttered open for a moment. She held her breath.

"Christine—forgive me-" The eyes closed again, and he murmured incoherently. He had not awoken.

"Yes…forgive me," Christine repeated. She choked back a sob as he began to toss back and forth, his utterances growing more and more frantic. She reflexively reached out and laid a hand on his arm. The contact sent a sudden tingle up her arm. "Erik," she said his name soothingly as he twisted around. She tried to steady her voice. "Please, Erik…Sleep…"

"Christine," he mumbled in his fitful slumber, one hand reaching out blindly.

"Yes," she whispered, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "I am here." She cautiously laid her hand in his, and he grasped it almost painfully.

"I am here," she reassured him.

"_Masquerade…Paper faces on parade…"_

She sighed in relief as he visibly relaxed, the sound of her voice spreading over him like a blanket.

"_Masquerade…Hide your face, the world will never find you…"_

۞


	5. Liberty

۞

_**Chapter Four:**_

_Liberty_

۞

Christine, during her adolescent years at the Opera Populaire, had always envisioned her Angel as just that: an Angel. He knew no weaknesses, he could overcome any evil, and he was always there to guide her. He was her pillar of strength when the memories of her father overwhelmed her, when she felt she was too exhausted to carry on in her lessons. Her time spent with him was a lovely recess from all her troubles and foolish worries that a teenager tended to have, for his celestial music washed them away in a blaze of light.

It was ironic, she had realized later, how she had always imagined him to be a luminous figure, radiating glory, when in truth he had been shrouded in the most impenetrable darkness. And now that divine presence, her master and maestro, was at death's door—and would most likely pass through it if she refused to help him.

Could she do it? Could she aid the man who was guilty of murder, taken her captive, and threatened the life of her husband?

She recalled another form, considerably smaller, and swathed in white blankets. She had lain only steps away, as the small existence withered and shriveled, for she was too ill herself to care for it. It had medicines, doctors, it had its father…but its own mother could not manage to lift herself from her sickbed and heal her child.

Erik had never known the love of a mother—and she would be damned if she would not do everything she could to show him that absent luxury. She was capable of it this time, and she would not let herself fail.

"Monsieur!" Christine called sharply, rising from where she knelt by Erik's bed. The anxious butler poked his head in, calming slightly as he saw the bedridden man was still.

"Yes, Madame?"

"I will need cloths, many damp cloths, and water." Her voice was resolute, an authority in it that Beaumont did not expect, and she did not recognize. "I _must not_ run out of water."

"Yes, right away, Madame." He vanished behind the door, closing it as he went.

Christine inhaled deeply, examining herself. Her expensive gown and silk gloves would only hinder her. She stripped the gloves off immediately, and, deciding to ask the butler for a maid's apron when he returned, tied her hair up with a ribbon.

Looking down at her new ward, the corners of her lips turned up slightly. "You would be proud of your naïve little Christine Daaé, _mon ange_." She reached down and gently brushed a lock of dark hair from his face. He murmured slightly, but did not stir. "Yes, I think you would be proud of me…Erik."

Then, steeling herself for the hardships yet to come, Christine le Comtesse de Chagny, nee Daaé, inelegantly rolled up her sleeves and became a woman.

۞

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

Lord, even his pulse was starting to give him a headache. How many bottles had it been now? Surely not more than one—

Raoul stared at his desk somberly.

One and a half, maybe.

_When did you become a drinking man, Chagny? _He asked himself, disgustedly. _When did you become such a coward that you dealt with your troubles in whiskey?_

_Lord, Christine, see what your thoughtlessness has driven me to._

Since his wife had left that morning, he had withdrawn to his study and refused to come out. At first, he had tried to avert his thoughts from her by reading, but it had been hopeless. He had tried working on documents he had planned not to touch during their holiday, but it was just as futile.

Her words kept returning to him.

"He only asks that I come—he does not mention…" 

He had not missed the way her cheeks coloured, or the guilt written plainly across her countenance as she avoided his gaze.

There could be dozens of explanations for this behavior, but Raoul, his mind slowed by alcohol and his heart in turmoil, only thought of one.

Surely, there was no way…Christine would not…be unfaithful?

And Dion, so young, and, Raoul could not help but think, hardly what women considered attractive. He was tall and lanky, only just growing into himself. What on earth did Christine see in him?

He ran his hand through his hair morbidly, resting both elbows on his desk and groaning slightly. He should not think such things. He should not have opened that bottle.

The only thing intoxication made easier was thinking about things. He knew he would forget it all later, so why not let himself sink into his miserable thoughts?

Their marriage was falling apart. He knew it, but he could not say it. It could barely be considered falling apart any more, now. It was hanging from a thread, which in turn was held over a flame. Achingly slowly, the fire burnt away each fibre, the flimsy line threatening to snap at any moment. Raoul could feel the weight tugging on his gut, slowly pulling him deeper and deeper into the fathomless black that was life without Christine. He feared it with all that was in him, more than he had ever feared anything in his life. To lose her would be his undoing.

With a start, he was reminded of another man who had felt the same, about the same woman, not so long ago. _"Phantom of the Opera,"_ Raoul mumbled, his tongue slurring and rolling with drink. Christine seemed to destroy each man who loved her, the Comte mused, recalling the man's unendurable grief as Christine chose _him_ over her teacher.

And yet the man had survived. Raoul had seen him, not a week ago—living, breathing, perfectly alive.

Except for his eyes, something in the back of Raoul's head murmured. Lifeless eyes. Haunted eyes. It was that undead state that he was frightened of. 

Almost reflexively, he took another gulp of the burning liquid, wincing as it slid down his throat.

"I am her _husband!_" He cried, surprised at the rasp in his voice. Reaching up, he was startled to find that his cheeks were damp with tears. He had not even been aware he was crying.

"_Her husband_…" He repeated, sobbing. "I will not let her _cast _me_ aside_…"

Suddenly outraged, he bellowed, "I gave you everything—everything I possessed! And what did I get in return? _A dead child!_ A miserable, _cheating_ wife—Christine-" he broke off, his tears choking him, and collapsed against the desk. "Everything…Everything…"

The clicking sound of shoes against tile reached his ears, and he had just enough time to wipe his eyes and hide the empty bottles under his desk before the door opened.

"Raoul," Christine said, smiling in greeting. He sucked in a breath. She seemed different than this morning—something about her. She stood up straighter, and there was a confidant glimmer in her eyes that had not been there before. In fact, he never recalled seeing it in all the years they had known each other.

"Hello, Christine." He forced himself to return her smile, and ended up giving her a sort of twisted grimace. She tilted her head curiously, and he felt her gaze linger on his red, swollen eyes and her lids narrow as his voice came out slightly slurred. "Isn't it rather late?" He gestured to the dark windows. She had been gone all day.

Christine bit her lip, stepping forward hesitantly. "I am sorry-" she paused nervously, "Dion introduced me to some of his friends…we, er, went to tea…and then dinner…" she finished lamely, knowing Raoul was well aware of how uncomfortable she was with aristocratic company.

"I see," Raoul murmured, picking up her falsehood easily. "Did you have a nice time?"

"Er, yes, quite nice, thank you."

A long, awkward silence settled over them, then,

"Christine—please," Raoul said, his desperation obvious. "Please, just tell me where you were." He stood, and turned his back to her, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Please tell me the truth—I will not be angry. That is all I want. The truth."

He heard her gasp quietly, and a rustle of skirts as she came closer. "Forgive me," she whispered, "I did not want to lie, Raoul, I did not mean to mislead you—I just could not bring myself to…I thought you would not like it."

He went utterly rigid.

"…I was with Erik. It is not—"

"Erik?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she said hurriedly, "you would not know his name. I was with—I was with the Phantom."

He felt as though his chest had been hollowed out, and his heart had plunged to the bottom. His throat tightened, and his shoulders slumped.

"As I said, it is not—"

He did not let her finish. "Leave."

She was quiet for a split second. "What?" Her voice betrayed her shock.

"Leave me be. I do not wish to hear any further."

"But, Raoul, please—"

"Just _go_, Christine."

"_Raoul!_"

He whirled around, so she could see the tears brimming in his eyes. "_Go!_"

He had never used that tone with her before. She fled from the room.

۞

Christine lay in her bed, eyes wide and staring into the dark.

She truly had not meant to lie to him. She had been planning to tell him the straight truth, and then beg him to understand. But when she saw him, heard the iciness in his voice, she could not bring herself to it.

And then it had blown up in her face. His voice had terrified her, the anger in his eyes. The hurt. She had never seen it in Raoul—never, not when his brother had died, or when their child had died, or four years ago that night in the Phantom's lair.

It was not only akin to; it was _exactly_ what she had seen in Erik. But Raoul was more of a dull grey, where Erik was black.

Raoul may have experience with death, he may have witnessed it; but Erik had felt it within him. Raoul could yet be saved, not just by her, but by anyone who would take him to heart.

Erik had only one guardian, or he was lost forever. Christine knew this. But she was not quite sure what it meant for her and Raoul. Not just yet.

Finally, she let herself slip away into one of the first peaceful slumbers she had had in years. She dreamt of a boy swimming out to sea to fetch a scarf—_her_ scarf. But it was not the young Raoul de Chagny this time; no, this time it was a little boy with a white mask covering the right side of his face.

This time it was Erik.

۞

The next morning, Christine rose at dawn. She felt oddly refreshed, as she looked out the window at the pale sunrise. Today, she had something to live for.

She had planned to dress without disturbing her maid, but realizing she could not lace up her corset herself, gently woke the astonished Adèle. The young girl, her irritation at being awoke early forgotten in the silent celebration of her mistress's good mood, helped Christine into a plain woolen dress and, at the Comtesse's request, supplied her with a bottle of quinine from the servant's quarters.

"If I am needed," Christine whispered to Adèle as she left, "Dion Marchand knows how to find me."

The maid had nodded, thrilled at the prospect of keeping the Comtesse's secrets, and saw her off in the carriage.

Christine sagged with relief as soon as the horses started into a trot away from the Chagny estate. She had known Raoul had been drinking last night and would probably not awake 'til much later, but she had still taken pains to avoid him. She was still frightened of the rage he had shown last night, and hoped he would have calmed down by the time she came home that evening.

_What kind of wife are you, avoiding your husband?_

"A horrible one," she answered herself aloud, her mouth forming a thin line. She knew it, and had learned to accept it. That only left Raoul to deal with the truth, in his own manner…

The carriage shuddered to a stop in front of Rue Manor, and Christine thanked her footman, stepping lightly out of the buggy. She faced Erik's home with a resolved countenance, and headed up to the door.

۞

The cloths she had left on him had dried over the night, and he was again moving about violently. She rushed to him as soon as Beaumont opened the door, ordering for more water and clean cloths.

Erik, hold on, for the love of God, please… 

She struggled to give him a dose of the quinine Adèle had given her, but he was too powerful, thrashing too much. She spilt a dose or two and he successfully whacked her across the head before Beaumont returned.

"The climax," she gasped, her voice flooding with fear. "Hurry, Beaumont, I need your help-" She broke off as Erik subconsciously swung his arm at her again.

The butler stared in horror.

"Please!"

The breaking point of the fever brought Erik into one of his worst fits yet, all his muscles lashing out and striking everything around him. Beaumont went to fetch the cook, Travers, whom Christine had never met. He was a short, stocky man with a shock of orange hair, and together the three of them managed to keep Erik confined to his bed.

Christine could not remember when her body had work so hard, every bone in her body aching so badly she wanted to collapse, her heart pounding ten times its normal rate, every cell screaming with defiance.

Then, in his frenzy, Erik's mask fell from his face.

Christine was the only one who did not recoil. Both men crossed themselves and stumbled backward, their eyes wide with fear.

Christine felt a lump form in her throat. _Please…do not give up now…_ "Please, I need your help," she said in a strangled voice. "Don't fear him, just because of his face—please, I know you are above it, both of you."

"Madame, he is—it is…"Beaumont stammered, at a loss for words.

"He is a man, Beaumont, much like yourself." Her voice was now rock hard. "He has seen too much death, felt too much pain, all because of a physical blemish. Has he ever harmed you? Ever cheated you out of your payment?"

They both slowly shook their heads.

"It is only flesh, gentlemen, listen to me. It will not harm you, it is not work of the devil…It is only Erik—tell me, have either of you heard his music?"

"Aye," Travers murmured, his eyes glazing over. "It was…indescribable…"

"That is all his emotions, all his has felt, in his music." She rested a hand on the deformed side of Erik's face, and he seemed to calm for a moment. "Did the music sound evil to you?"

"No," Travers replied, moving closer. "No, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard…"

"Then, for the love of God, help me."

Nervously at first, and then with growing confidence, they both came forward, and Beaumont knelt down and handed Christine Erik's mask.

"Thank you," she murmured, putting it back on him. She looked back at the men for a moment. "But, I must warn you not to mention that you have seen his face around him, or ever again—to anyone. If you do, I cannot guarantee your safety."

They nodded, and, with Erik's mask intact, they came to help her again.

With Beaumont barely managing to hold down his arms, Christine plugged Erik's nose and swiftly delivered a dose of the medicine. "It is safer now," she murmured, and Beaumont slowly eased away.

Erik let out a gentle breath, like the sigh of a sleeping child, and gradually relaxed.

Christine wilted against the side of the bed with an exhausted, airy laugh. She looked over at her two companions, Travers leaning against the wall with his hand on his forehead, and Beaumont keeled over clutching his gut. They were both covered in bruises and drained as she.

"I don't believe we've met," she managed, weakly holding out her hand to the cook. He pumped it up and down enthusiastically as he could in his state.

"An honour, Madame le Comtesse," he said, his voice gravelly and deep, with a slight accent that Christine recognized to be Scottish. "Name's Travers."

"It is a pleasure," she replied. She was about to say more when Erik's hand swung out and narrowly missed her shoulder. The three dove back on top of him as it began again, new beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Christine grabbed a cloth and frantically began wiping him down, trying to ignore his bare chest under her fingers, when she noticed a slight discolouration of the fabric as she pulled it away to reach for another.

She froze for a moment, staring at the stain in dread and disbelief. The red, coppery hue was unmistakable. "_Where is it coming from?_" She cried, and the two struggling men looked over at her in shock. She pawed at Erik wildly, fingers sliding down his chest searchingly, holding out his arm and examining it, lifting his head.

"The _blood_—_where?_" Then, as she lifted his arm again, she caught a glimpse of red on the back of his shoulder.

"Turn him over!" She commanded. They stared at her ludicrously. "Do it!"

She forced another dose of quinine into his mouth to reassure them. Then, they grabbed his side and tugged him around, slightly easier with the quinine to slow him down. On the back of his left shoulder, there was a hideous red gash.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth and she held back a sob.

It stretched down from the top of his shoulder to an inch or so below his armpit, angry and freshly opened because of his movement.

"That's infected, that is," Beaumont said in a low, quivering voice. Christine made an effort to speak.

"Beaumont—either of you, do you have…anything, anything that could treat an infected wound? Like this?" She looked at the either of them desperately. "Did he ever get _any_ basic medical supplies _at all_?"

"No, he didn't," Travers replied, "but I might have something—I use it when I cut myself in the kitchen, though, so it might not-"

"It'll do," Christine interrupted him hurriedly. "Go, fetch it!"

He left and returned with a green salve in an instant, placing it in Christine's shaking hands. She used a cloth to clean off the wound, and then gently rubbed the ointment into it. Erik twitched madly, but Beaumont and Travers managed to hold him.

"What can we use for bandages?" She asked them.

Beaumont jumped up, a crazed grin on his face, and raced from the room. He came back with a roll of gauze, and handed it proudly to Christine. "One of the horses cut 'imself, weeks ago." She smiled gratefully and began to wind the bandages around Erik's shoulder.

When she was finished, they turned him back over to find he had fallen into a comatose, sleeplike state.

"It is over," Christine said shakily, and the two men stepped back, sighing in unison. "He will either wake up, or…" She could not finish the sentence. And by the looks on the two men's faces, she did not need to.

"I will stay with him," she continued firmly. "You have no idea how grateful I am for your assistance. _Merci beaucoup_, with all my heart." She gave them a warm, though fatigued smile. They had formed a sort of bond, the three of them, in taking care of Erik. The men returned the smile, and bowed out.

Alone with her patient at last, Christine wrung out a few cloths and lay them across Erik's chest. His breathing had slowed considerably, but his skin was still burning, despite her efforts. She tenderly stroked his face with one of the cloths, and some of the lines of anguish receded.

"Tormented beauty, lost in shadow, 

_Rise from the ashes, outcast…_

_My Angel of Music, so near to heaven,_

_Return to me now, at last…"_

۞

A light; it was faint, flickering…but a light nonetheless. Erik reached for it, his arms aching, a wildfire searing through his veins, blinding him. The black was overwhelming, inescapable. It was worse than it had ever been, for it was not _his _black. This was cold, unforgiving demise, not the divine splendor that was his making.

He was not welcomed; he was forced into its fiery depths, drowning in the eternal midnight. Every breath coated his throat with it, every movement sucking him deeper into it.

And he realized, however hateful and obscure his life was, he did not want to leave it. He could not give in to death. He battled through it, resisting with every bit of strength he had left against the clawing fingers of the darkness. But it had seemed so hopeless, as he was dragged downwards…and he was so horribly exhausted from all his fighting…

But something had broken through—a white, glowing melody. It was at first tiny as a star, glimmering in the distance. Then it grew, reaching down into the gloom and pulling him free. It spread over everything, consuming the demons around him, bursting inside of him.

At first, he thought he had reached heaven; then, he realized it was something much sweeter. It was life.

۞

Christine had drifted into an uneasy sleep, after covering Erik in fresh towels. She was haphazardly resting against the bedpost, her shoulders and arms stretched across the mattress, and her legs curled underneath her on the floor.

She awoke with a pained cry as Erik grabbed onto her hand and squeezed it tightly. His face was contorted in some inner struggle, and she was afraid if he put any more pressure on her fingers they would break. But she dare not pry them loose. He was holding on for dear life.

"Erik," she whispered. "Erik, listen to my voice…

"_Angel of Music, I denied you,_

_Turning from true beauty…_

_Angel of Music, my protector,_

_Come to me, strange Angel…"_

His hand went flaccid in hers, and his chest rose in a slow breath. His skin was cool; he would live.

Christine let out a strangled sob in relief and exhaustion. With aching limbs she pushed herself to her feet, her hand throbbing, and stumbled over to the armchair in front of the fireplace. Wholly spent, she sprawled across it and almost instantly fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

۞

When his eyes eased open, Erik at first could not imagine where he was. The canopy bed was not his coffin; the crimson walls were not his lair. The only familiar thing was the dim candlelight, coming from a single candelabrum in the corner.

With a jolt, he recalled his home, his life in Nice. _The Opera house is in the past, _he reminded himself, staring up at the ceiling and taking deep breaths. _You are Erik de la Rue. _

He propped himself up on his elbows, only to have a searing pain explode from his shoulder down his left arm. Gasping, he collapsed back onto the pillow and tried to recall the past several days.

He had gone to Dion's celebration…Christine was there… 

Erik gritted his teeth.

_He had come home…His music—_He tried to glance over at the fireplace—_He had burnt it…then…what had happened then? _He could not remember past that. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

There was a voice, singing to him—and struggling, fighting. People were holding him down. And everything was burning; he was on fire…

Erik glanced down at himself, to find he was shirtless, and several damp cloths were crumpled under his reclining form. His left shoulder was bandaged heavily. Next to the bed, more cloths, and a bucket of water—

A bottle of quinine rested on the bedside table, half empty.

_Fever._

He cursed quietly, and, putting all his weight on his right shoulder, brought himself up to lean against the headboard. Gently pulling at the bandages of his left shoulder, he grimaced as he saw the enflamed flesh wound. An odd green coloured cream had been spread over it, and Erik wondered who could have possibly cared for him—surely not his servants…a doctor, perhaps?

His mask was still in place, he observed with relief. If it had been a doctor, they did not remove it…

He stiffened as he heard a soft mumbling, and something stirred in the corner of his eye. He turned.

Spread across the fireside chair was a mass of dark curls and dainty limbs, donned in a simple wool dress.

That voice— 

_Christine._

Erik felt a hot rage boiling up inside of him. How dare she invade his home—his _privacy_! Had she not done enough damage that she felt the need to break into his last wall against her, his one sanctuary? Now, he would always be reminded of her when he sat in that chair, stood before that fire. Christ, this whole room now positively reeked of her. How she must have reveled in caring for him in his weakened state, thinking she could intrude back into his life by playing _nurse_. Now she would think he was indebted to her—to _her_! That foolish, naïve, weak _chit_ of a girl!

Careful to lean on his right side only, he slid his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. His head and shoulder pounded in protest, but he ignored the pain and staggered over to the dresser. Resting against it, he pulled on a robe and tied the belt tightly. Then, straightening himself, he went slowly over to where Christine slept in his chair.

He could not prepare himself for the sight, and reeled as all his breath left him.

Her thick tresses bunched under her head and then tumbled over the side of the chair, framing her pale face. Her countenance was the picture of serenity, pink lips curled into a faint smile, brow smoothed over. Her cheeks had regained some of their blush that had been missing when he had seen her at the gala.

Her legs were stretched over the arm of the chair, side by side, with one stocking-covered foot peaking out slightly under the skirt. Her shoes, he saw, were on the ground beneath them, fallen off in her sleep. She had rested one hand across her middle, the other just below her neck.

Erik could have wept at her beauty.

Then, her eyes fluttered open, and she stared at him. He saw shock, worry, and then, as she realized her position, embarrassment, flicker across their glassy surface.

"Hello, Christine," Erik said, his voice hoarse after not speaking for several days.

"Oh-" she muttered, quickly sitting up properly and then scrambling to stand. "Forgive me, I did not think you would—I was just very tired, and-" she spoke rapidly, stumbling over her words. Brushing her dress off self-consciously, she turned to face him. Her voice died in her throat at the pure revulsion and fury in his eyes.

"I take it you cared for me," Erik said icily.

"I—I did," Christine replied, failing to hide the quiver in her voice.

"You are thanked." He looked away and stepped towards the window, drawing back the curtains, eyes widening a bit to see that it was dusk. She watched him in mute fascination. "Now, you may go," he finished over his shoulder.

"Go?" Christine repeated in astonishment.

"Yes, leave me." His tone was hard, and Christine could sense the anger lurking just beneath it.

But he was not the first man to say those words to her these past few days. And this time, she could not take it.

"That's all you're going to say?" She continued, tears at the unfairness of it all threatening to spill over her eyes. "After days of sitting by your side and—and _caring_ for you, you're just going to dismiss me? _Like a maid?_"

Erik growled, low in his throat. "What would you have me say, _Madame_?" He whirled around. "I should throw you out of my house this instant, for your _idiocy_! Do you think I took it well, spending years of my life raising you, teaching you, pouring my heart and soul into your, to have you _turn me away_?"

She opened and closed her mouth, clutching the back of the chair for support.

"No, Christine—you deserve nothing. Now _go_." He turned his back to her, watching as the sun sank beneath the waves. There were several minutes of silence, and Erik was startled when he heard her voice behind him.

"Perhaps," she said forlornly, "perhaps you are right, Erik."

He flinched as she spoke his name.

"But, please, give me the chance to-"

"_To do what, Christine?_" He thundered, and she recoiled instantly as he stepped towards her. "To squirm your way back into me, like the serpent that you are? To make me fall madly in love with you all over again, then _change _your_ mind_ and run back to Paris with your precious Comte? I think _not_, Madame!

"Why can you not choose one man, and stay with him? Was being Comtesse de Chagny not enough for you? Does your _husband_ know about this little visit, Christine? Must you burden both of us with your little games?"

"I was _frightened_!" She shouted back, surprising Erik at the force of her voice. "I was only sixteen, Erik, and you were threatening to kill him! What did you expect me to do, run into your arms for _comfort_? On all that is good in this world, do not believe I _wanted_ to inflict such pain upon you—I know, Erik, I know I betrayed you—and do you think I have not paid for it? I pay for it every night, when your face haunts me-" She suddenly reached forward and pulled the mask from his face.

"And not that! Not that, Erik! It never mattered to me, that one side of your face may not have been as perfect as the other—it was the look in your eyes," she stumbled over a cloth on the floor, and collapsed down onto the bed. Putting her head in her hands, she began to weep. "The look in your eyes when I left you with that ring…"

Erik had frozen. Even when she pulled the mask from his face, he could not seem to move. His limbs were stuck in place as he watched Christine scream at him, misery and anger he did not know she possessed leaking into her voice. His heart wrenched as she began to cry, her form shaking in horrible sobs.

"Christine," he finally managed, his throat dry.

"No!" She cut him off. "No, you are right." She suddenly got to her feet, rubbing her eyes. "I should leave. I have healed you as best I could, Erik." She would not look at him, her eyes staying glued to the floor. "Goodbye."

And without another word, she fled from another room, and another man.

Erik cried out for her, but it was too late—she had gone.

۞


	6. Concord

۞

_**Chapter Five:**_

_Concord_

۞

Christine was pale, but composed, for the duration of the ride home. She could've laughed when she realized she was not wearing any shoes, but her chest seemed void. She sat motionlessly in the carriage, her delicate hands folded in her lap, and her gaze downcast. There were no more tears; it seemed she had finally cried her eyes dry. Now, she simply felt drained, as though someone had cut a hole inside her, and all energy had slowly leaked out of her body over the past week.

_What did you expect? _She asked herself bitterly.

_Nothing. _She had just wanted to tell him, to apologize…to prove to him that she wasn't as heartless as he believed—or perhaps, to prove it to herself. Still, his words had wounded her, and, in spite of herself, surprised her. He had truly let go of her, then—and now she must learn to stand on her own.

_But I saved you, Erik, and somewhere in your mind, you found it in yourself to love me. _When he had reached for her, held onto her in his darkest hour… _For those few precious moments, I had your heart. _And she had not missed the look in his eyes, when he had been standing over her just as she awoke. It had flitted away in a matter of seconds, but she had seen the startled adoration he had so heatedly denied.

_It is no use lingering on lost chances; _she reprimanded herself, biting her lip. _Even if he dared to care for you again, you are a married woman, Comtesse de Chagny._

She glanced out the window, wincing at the dark hue of the sky. She would be home late again, and she knew Raoul would be waiting for her—waiting for his wife to come home after spending a day in the company of another man.

"_Must you burden us both with your little games?"_

"Oh, Raoul," Christine murmured dejectedly. "You do not deserve such punishment, all for loving someone…"

Christine did love Raoul—she had always loved him. He was her deliverance, and she was eternally grateful. But if they went on trying to survive in a marriage that was so obviously failing, it would end up destroying them both. She could feel her heart split in two at this acknowledgment, to realize that the fairytale she had created was doomed from the start. It had seemed all too perfect, when they were younger, and now Christine had discovered that something beyond perfection only has a farther way to fall, and it only takes one tip of the scale to send it tumbling.

Flaw was the essence of existence; without it, there would be no continuation. You needed wrong to have right, evil to have good, hate to have love…and a world with no dark side was not a world at all.

۞

Disoriented and lost in thought was how Christine entered the Chagny estate. She climbed lithely up the stairs, her feet reflexively moving to meet each step, her mind somewhere else entirely. Only when she had sat down in her bedroom and eased on a new pair of shoes did she take in the eerie silence.

Usually, she could hear movement in the kitchens below her, or the hushed voices and scuffle of footsteps as a pair of maids walked down the hallway. Sometimes Raoul even had the fire lit, though the nights were usually warm in Nice, and she would venture towards the comforting sound of crackling flames.

Tonight, however, the house was noiseless.

She craned her neck out into the hall, unnerved. There was no one. She traveled through the vacant corridors, wringing her wrists. _Afraid in your own house, _she thought mockingly, but could not entirely expel the fear in her voice as she called out for the servants.

"Adèle? Vienne?" She almost ran down the stairs in her haste. "Deniau?" Reluctantly, she made her way to the door of Raoul's study. Bracing herself, she turned the knob and went in.

۞

Raoul knew who it was before he even turned. Even in his state, he could still recognize Christine's light steps, her tentative nature as the door slowly creaked open. This time, he did not think to hide the bottle or the half empty glass.

"_Bonsoir_, Christine." He tried his best to keep his voice steady. She inclined her head, and he could see plainly that she was nervous.

"Raoul, I am sorry for coming home so late in the day again," she murmured quickly. "If you would only let me explain—"

She stopped talking and stared at him as he thrust his chair away from the desk, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and came slowly towards her. "Christine, let us not linger on unpleasant details." He did not want to hear of her day spent away from him—suddenly, he was overcome with some unidentifiable emotion, in between jealousy and desire.

She stood there so innocently, her dark eyes so wide he could swim in them, her lips—

She stiffened as he kissed her, cold against his touch. His hands, clumsy with drink, wandered from her shoulders down her arms, then came to rest on her waist. Still, she did not respond.

_God, do you even love me any more?_

He flung her away, cursing. "Why? _Why_? Am I not your husband anymore, Christine?" He shouted as she staggered backwards with small cry, clutching the back of a settee for support.

"Raoul," she gasped shakily, "My love, you are not yourself…"

"Don't call me that!" He yelled, his voice breaking, "Not when you don't mean it!"

Christine took a step back, fear coursing through her veins. She had tasted the whiskey on his breath, and could see the red rims around his eyes; he was completely drunk, and completely unpredictable.

"Raoul, where are the servants?" She asked, trying to distract him.

"I dismissed them for the night," he answered. "I thought perhaps…" He trailed off, scowling.

Christine froze. She was alone in the house? Raoul might not mean to hurt her, but he had no control of his actions when he was this heavily intoxicated…

"But, you have come home so late, after again spending the entire day with that—that _murderer_, and—"

Christine felt a flame of anger stir in the pit of her stomach. "He is _not_—"

"You're defending him?" Raoul said in disbelief. "Christine, that man is _mad_! Do you not remember what he did to the Opera House? Has that escaped your memory?"

Ashamed, she turned away.

With a resentful groan, Raoul rested both his hands on the front of his desk, letting his head hand below his shoulders. "How can you still care for him," he whispered, and Christine flinched at the unchecked misery in his voice. "Why did you let him haunt you, Christine?"

He abruptly pushed all the papers off his desk. "It was because of your unwillingness to move on, to forget him, that your nightmares returned! It was because of your _goddamned_ infatuation with him that we now sleep in _separate beds_!" Spinning around, he took one huge step forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. "It is because of _you_, and because of _him_, that _our child is dead!_"

An alarm went off in Christine's mind. Something within her exploded, and, raising a hand, she slapped Raoul harshly across the face. He released her, stunned.

"Is that what you think?" She asked hoarsely. "That I killed our child?" She wrenched the door open. "I have spent four years mourning, Raoul de Chagny, and only just today did I finally manage to forgive myself for it all." Her voice quivered in rage. "_I will not be dragged back into that nightmare._"

Marching out, Christine slammed the door behind her. Raoul stood there for quite some time after she left, and then sat down behind his desk, letting whiskey and tears claim him.

۞

Dion smirked to himself as he read over the note that had just been delivered.

"_My Estimable Student,_

"_Your intentions were noble, I am sure, when you assigned Madame le Comtesse de Chagny to care for me…"_

Erik had most certainly recovered. When his footman had arrived, grinning like an idiot, Dion had immediately known his plan had been successful. He had been waiting with bated breath for the past two days, practically living at his door, waiting for a message from either Christine or his teacher.

"I assure you, the sentiment does not go unnoticed. However, your discernment in doctors must be questioned…"

His acerbic wit had recovered as well.

"_Due to the inexperience and late arrival of medical assistance, I obtained unnecessary injury, an infected wound. As such, I am afraid our lessons will have to be postponed until I fully regain my health. I am well taken care of by my servants, so you need not send any other troublesome women to tend to me."_

Dion chuckled at this last sentence. Folding up the letter in high spirits, he started upstairs. He stopped in mid-step, as there came another sharp knock at the door. Sighing, he backtracked down the stairs. Any trace of a smile the letter from Erik had mustered up vanished, as he opened it to find a morbid Christine de Chagny, along with a traveling suitcase and a fresh bruise on her left cheek.

"Christine," he gasped, his jaw hanging open.

"Hello, Dion," she greeted him in a strangled voice. "I am sorry to barge in on you like this, but—"

"No, no—not at all! Come in…" He stepped aside, quickly closing the door behind her. She smiled wanly as they stood in an awkward silence, Dion opening and closing his mouth several times.

"I would normally not…be so…dramatic, but I could not stay at my home any longer." She paused, watching Dion. He only gulped and nodded slowly. "Er, perhaps we should sit down? Forgive me for imposing you, but some tea would be lovely…"

"Oh!" Dion exclaimed, his manners suddenly returning to him. "Yes, of course, follow me."

They sat, once again, in his library, and, the tea being served, Christine finally seemed to relax in the familiar comforts. She virtually collapsed on to the sofa, setting her suitcase down with a thud, and leaning against the cushions wearily.

"So, er, what brings you to…here…?" Dion asked uncertainly, watching her sip the tea warily, as though he expected her to burst into hysterics at any moment.

"I would not have troubled you, but I am afraid my friends in Nice are few," she replied, with a weak laugh. "And do not look at me so, I am not going to faint." She gave him a teasing smile to reassure him.

"Forgive me," Dion said, returning the smile, "but you seem so…downhearted, my dear."

"Raoul and I quarreled," she said in explanation, and Dion's gaze immediately went to the bruise on her cheek. "Oh!" One hand flew up to cover it, and she shook her head. "No, that was not Raoul, that was—er, an earlier accident. Raoul did not hurt me."

Dion sighed in relief. "I would go to any means to protect you, Christine," Dion said seriously. "You are a true friend."

She smiled warmly in response. "As are you, Dion, but it is not protection I need—simply a place to stay, until I find a way to straighten things out with my husband." Her face went a shade paler. "I am afraid that we will not be…together…for very much longer…"

Dion was overcome with sympathy for this woman that was saddened beyond her years. "I am sorry, Christine."

She waved her hand flippantly. "Let us not speak of it," she murmured, swallowing some more tea.

Dion watched her, amazed at the strength this woman must have to compose herself so often. If he were in her position, he would have fallen to his knees and begged for mercy long ago. But not she; she seemed to have transformed from the submissive, meek Comte's wife of a month ago, into a self-sufficient, courageous woman. She was wise past her years at the age of twenty, and Dion felt he could learn so much if she would one day take the time to sit down and tell him her life story.

But now was not that time.

Instead, he had a plan to perhaps save three people from themselves, and now was his chance to put it into action.

"I am greatly indebted to you, for taking care of Erik these past few days," he started, and was not surprised when an unhindered sadness surfaced in her eyes, then was pulled back and lost in their brown depths. "He sent me a note just now, with thanks…" Well, it was not _entirely_ a lie.

She looked up, startled, a glimmer of hope betraying her blank countenance. "With thanks?" She repeated. Dion nodded encouragingly.

"And, see, Christine—I am afraid my father and I are going away on the morrow, so you could not stay here…" She tried her best to hide her disappointment at this news. "But, I am sure Erik would be delighted-" _Only slightly an overstatement, Marchand. _"—to have you, for as long as you need."

She snorted in disbelief, and Dion stared at her surprising unladylike demeanor. "You and I both know that is not true," she told him, averting her gaze.

"Christine, when he hears the urgency of your situation…and I understand he has not fully recovered from a flesh wound—he would still need someone to care for him. I am sure his servants could not handle him as well as you."

She shook her head, smiling. "You assume so much, yet you barely even know the story behind…myself and Erik."

"It is not so much what people tell me, but what I observe. It is not difficult to see the depth of the feelings you harbour for each other."

She flushed noticeably. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, a little too hastily. Then, sobering, she gave a little sigh. "No matter how grave my state of affairs may be, Dion, I fear Erik will never speak with me again."

Dion grinned wickedly. "Who says you must speak? Here, let me write you a note-" He rose and went to his desk, retrieving a quill and parchment. "We shall see if he lets you stay, my dear Comtesse; we shall see."

۞

Christine was torn between trepidation and amusement as she entered Rue Manor, Beaumont spouting joyous greetings as he took her tiny suitcase. Since it was already well into the night, the candles in the foyer had all been lit, and the mahogany was awash in golden light. With all the red hangings and dancing shadows, Christine was sorely reminded of her last opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_.

Beaumont purged her nostalgic thoughts, asking if she would like to be taken to Monsieur de la Rue's study, where he was currently working. Christine declined politely, handing him Dion's note and stating that she would wait in the entrance hall until he returned. Beaumont, though puzzled, complied readily, putting her suitcase down and striding off purposely.

Christine clasped her hands in front of her, watching him go. Not quite sure what to do with herself in his absence, she simply stood, trying not to fidget, and gave into memory.

۞

"A message for you, sir."

Erik looked up, glowering at his butler. He had specifically requested to be left alone for the night, and the idiotic grin on Beaumont's face was not promising. He had been working on a new piece, trying and failing miserably to exclude Christine from the melody. Her shadow was cast over every note, and he had been about to tear it up and start anew.

He doubted the next composition would be any better, however. His left shoulder was distracting him from his work as well, the wound aching horribly and sending shots of pain down his arm whenever he moved it—but he refused to tell any of his servants. He would not let them attend to him if he were within an inch of his life.

"This had better be important, Beaumont," he said acidly to the cheerful man.

"Oh, it is, Monsieur." He came forward and handed Erik the note, and, turning away, added, "Oh, and the Comtesse is in the foyer, awaiting you."

Erik went rigid. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, Madame le Comtesse de-"

"I know what you said," Erik snarled. Then, suddenly weary, his shoulders slumped and he rested his head in his hands. "You may leave."

Beaumont left without a word, Erik dispelling a shaky breath as he heard the door close behind him.

Christine had returned? He had never expected to see her again—though of course, he had always thought that when they saw each other—and yet it had only been hours before she had come back…but to what purpose? Erik examined the note. It bore the Marchand seal, and he groaned.

_I should have known._

Dion had set up another one of his brilliant plans to save Erik from himself, by setting Christine loose in his household. With apprehension, he opened the envelope.

"_Erik,_

"_I am greatly pleased to hear of your good health, but I must ask you a favour. Christine de Chagny is in great need of your assistance…"_

Erik's lips compressed to a thin line.

"She has informed me of your circumstances, and I assure you she will be no hindrance to you. If you would only set her up in one of the rooms in your vast household, I am sure you two would not even have to speak to one another. She only needs a place to reside until she can confirm her divorce from-"

Divorce. Erik reread the line. His eyes had not been mistaken. Divorce—Christine was getting a divorce. He had to stop himself from crying out in delight, and jumped from his seat, pacing as he quickly read through the rest of the note.

"—_From the Comte de Chagny. As I am sure you can understand, her situation is an awkward one. She is now awaiting your acceptance—or rejection—of her request in your foyer. Please choose wisely._

_Regards,_

_D. Marchand"_

He set down the parchment on his desk, and stared at it blankly. He did not know what to think. Christine, staying in his house—how could he cope with it? He could not handle speaking with her for five minutes. And now that she was getting a divorce…what would that mean?

_It could mean nothing, _he told himself, suddenly embittered. _It could mean exactly what the note says; she simply needs a place to stay until she can rid herself of her husband._

_But she is coming to you! _Another part of him said, and he resumed pacing. _She could have gone to any one of her friends, but she came here!_

"…_You two would not even have to speak to one another…"_

It was true. Erik could simply tell Beaumont to give her a room, and then avoid her like the plague for the month or so that she was here.

It sounded ridiculous, even in his head. No, he would face her, he would see she had a room, and then he would simply leave her to her own devices. He had no doubt she would want to let him alone as well.

Squaring his shoulders, he stepped out of his study and strode down the hall to the foyer. He felt his throat tighten as he caught sight of her, still in her now stained woolen dress, her curls highlighted with red and gold as she chatted amiably with Beaumont.

They both turned as they heard his footsteps, Christine going pallid and Beaumont stepping back quickly. It was then that all of Erik's resolve shattered—as Beaumont moved away to reveal the left side of Christine's face, and the hideous purple bruise that had formed there.

The feelings of earlier that evening swarmed him, when she had flown from his room, her grieved confessions still lingering in his ears. He had wanted to take her in his arms and beg for forgiveness, slowly realizing the truth in her words, cursing himself for inflicting such pain upon her. He had lounged in a pool of self-hate the rest of the night, forcing his shoulder through the arduous act of dressing and holing himself up in his study.

He was somehow relieved when he saw similar feelings of anxiety and guilt reflect in her eyes as she stood at the door, holding her suitcase as though she expected to be leaving. And her cheek…he could not tear his gaze away from it, the mark so obvious against her white complexion.

Had _Raoul_ done this to her?

"Comtesse," he murmured, pleased that his voice was stable.

"I would prefer not to be addressed by that title, while I am here," she said slowly, unsurely, as though her words were a new food she was not sure she liked.

"Ah, yes, so I hear it shall not be yours…for very much longer…" He watched her carefully for her reaction. The corners of her mouth quivered a little, and she looked away.

"No, it shan't."

They stood nearly half way across the room from each other, but her sweet scent invaded Erik's senses, and he felt himself stagger mentally. "You will, of course, be permitted to stay in Rue Manor-"

A smile broke out on her attractive features, and Erik felt his heart swell.

"-For as long as you wish."

Beaumont, smiling as well, took the suitcase from her grip. "I'll sort out her room, then, shall I?" With an inclination of his head, he disappeared down the right main hall.

The silence was suffocating. Erik was sure the pounding of his heart would start echoing if someone did not speak soon. "Your cheek," he ventured, gesturing.

She immediately moved to cover it. "A simple accident," she supplied quickly.

"Ah," he responded in a choked voice. "Then, it was not—"

"Raoul? No." She blushed.

"May I ask…?"

Her eyes widened a little. "Well, you must—you must not blame yourself," she stammered, and Erik went cold. Himself? "When you were ill, in your delirium…you tended to…strike out, at times." She scrambled for words. "I was not quick enough…I…Your hand—"

"Yes, I understand," he gasped, turning away. "Beaumont should be back any moment to show you to your room. Goodnight, Madame."

Once in the sanctuary of his study, Erik leaned against the back of the divan and moaned. He had struck her. Right across her flawless cheek, he had flung his hand, and—He did not know how he could do it, even in his sleep. How could he _not_ blame himself? If only she had never tried to help him, he was beyond help…

Erik shook himself. He was acting like a lovesick idiot. And if it was already this stressful, how could he ever live through the weeks yet to come?

۞

Christine's room was small, but refined. It was at the far end of the house, as far away from Erik's room as she could be. She wondered why Erik had designed such a feminine room when he made the house—white lace and lavender walls, as though he was expecting female companionship.

She felt an unfamiliar tug at her gut as unexpected jealousy passed over her. _Had_ Erik had female companionship? Had there been another woman staying here, enjoying his company, listening to his music, like she once had in his home underneath the Opera house?

Dispelling any such thoughts from her head, she slowly began unpacking the few gowns and tokens she had taken with her from the Chagny residence. One other woolen dress, her favourite formal gown of blue satin, and one of light green taffeta, meant for summer. Also she had her nightgown, another pair of slippers, and a photograph of her father. She hung all the clothing up in her closet, and placed the picture on her bedside table.

Finally, she began to undress, struggling a little at the lacking of maid and presence of laces. Eventually, however, the wool and corset were both off, and she slipped her nightgown on over her chemise. She found a robe of plain cotton in the closet and wrapped herself in it.

Then, sitting at the edge of her bed, she tried to take in all that had happened that day.

She had gone from her home, to Erik's, then home again, then to Dion's, and now back to Erik's…

It was too overwhelming. She decided to try to sleep, instead.

The mattress was sinfully comfortable, and she melted into it with a sigh of pleasure. Everything in Erik's home seemed to be high quality, and she realized with Dion as his employer, he must be the owner of quite a fortune.

But, no matter how soft the mattress was, how plumped the pillows, her body would not succumb to slumber. She tossed and turned, throwing the blanket on and off, but it did no good. Rising from her bed, she put the robe back on and opened her door.

With a furtive glance down the darkened hall to make sure she was alone, she ventured out into the house. Perhaps she would explore Erik's vast manor, and then try to get some rest. It would not hurt to know her way around.

The floor creaked under her stealthy steps, as she peered into shadowed doorways and admired rooms that looked as though they had never been entered. One was a magnificent parlor, complete with ornate fireplace and grand piano that was covered in a fine layer of dust. He had never played it.

Another seemed to be an artist's studio, with an easel and a huge window looking out onto the ocean. Christine stood admiring the view for some time, before she transferred her gaze to the paintings. Many were unidentifiable, rough brushstrokes, of blazing crimsons and rich purples and shocking yellows. A few were human forms, females, all in pastel pink, nearly washed out in the white around them. Only the slight shadow, the dainty hands, and the tilted head gave way that there was a person amidst the blankness.

One canvas still rested on the easel, covered by a stained cloth. She lifted it curiously, and gasped. Underneath, another portrait of a woman, the features slightly blurred, but the brown curls and large dark eyes were unmistakable. It was of herself.

She left the studio in a hurry, feeling as though she was invading in something extremely private of Erik's, and made her way along the length of the hall. She paused as she saw a shaft of orange light underneath a pair of sturdy double doors, illuminating a small section of the corridor.

She only knew one other person who would be up at this hour.

She eased open the door, squinting slightly as firelight assaulted her eyes. Slipping through the small opening, she hurriedly shut the door behind her, taking care not to make any noise.

There was a large desk at one end of the room, nearly lost in shadow as Christine gazed down the long space. Directly in front of her was a brick grate, a small fire burning in it, and the slouched form of a man in a loose white shirt. She watched, transfixed, as he brought a hand up to massage his left shoulder.

"Does it hurt?" She whispered timidly, and he leapt to his feet, whirling around.

"Christine," Erik breathed, trying not to gape. "I did not hear you come in."

"I was careful not to disturb you," she murmured, the corners of her mouth turning up a little. "Your shoulder, is it bothering you?"

"No," he answered immediately. She raised an eyebrow skeptically, and he amended, "Not often."

There was an awkward silence.

"I also wanted to tell you again, it was not your fault, about my cheek," Christine said, embarrassed.

Erik stiffened immediately, his eyes turning glassy. "My apologies, for anything I might have done while I was ill." He turned and sat back down, staring into the fire.

Hesitantly, Christine came forward and lightly rested a hand on his injured shoulder. "I could reapply some salve to it, you know," she murmured. "You should not be moving around so much, it slows the healing."

Erik felt energy jolt through him when she touched him. "It is fine, I assure you."

Christine tried not to be hurt by his cold tone. She came and sat on the other end of the couch, staring at her hands. It really _was _unfair of him now; she was _trying_ to make up for things…

Erik's head pivoted as he heard a small sniffle from the other end of the couch. He cried out as he saw Christine's shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and tears slipping down her bruised cheek.

"Christine, please," he begged her, moving closer to her.

"Don't!" She yelled, standing and moving away. "Not after just…Sometimes I think I'll never understand you, Erik, and your sudden moods…" She brought her free hand up to cover her eyes as she started to weep harder. Erik stood as well, unsure of what to say.

"I destroyed my marriage to save you! Raoul was mad with jealousy, I drove him to drinking, Erik—I destroyed my marriage, and my husband…" Christine's voice was now broken with sobs.

"It seems to be a trend with you, destroying men," Erik said coldly, resentment coursing through him at mention of the Comte.

"You _unfeeling_ cad! Must you make this worse? I don't know why I came here, thinking perhaps I could find some comfort." She had turned to look at him, spitting the words in his face.

"I don't know why you think you can redeem me, you foolish girl," Erik retorted venomously. "I am what I always was, and nothing can change that."

"God, Erik, I know I wronged you, but must you _hold on to it so tightly_?"

"Wronged me? A brutal understatement, Christine—you betrayed me in front of the world! You revealed me, shamed me in the opera I had written _for you_!"

Christine groaned in frustrated. "I had to, Erik!" She said shrilly. "There were police everywhere, if you hadn't gone through the trapdoor, they would have shot _us both_!" She closed her eyes tightly. "I would never be able to bring myself to do such a thing if it wasn't to save you, even if _Raoul_ asked it of me. I swear on my father's grave." Suddenly, she dissolved into tears again. "And now I've lost Raoul! I spent four years lost in self-pity, mourning for a man who had been alive all along, mourning for the child I had killed—_my child_, Erik! _Dead_! Not even half a year old…_My Phillipe_…_dead_…"

Erik felt a numbing cold wash over him. His chest seized up as he tried to register this information. _Christine had lost a child. Christine had saved him…Christine…_

He reached out for her, and she collapsed readily into his embrace, clutching his shirtsleeve tightly as she wept.

"That's why I had to save you, Erik…Phillipe died of fever, right beside me…And I knew, I just _knew_ if I cured you…Was it so wicked of me? To sacrifice my marriage to find forgiveness?"

"Hush, Christine…" He rubbed her back soothingly.

"He blames me, Erik, Raoul blames everything on me!" She rested her head against his chest, exhausted. "And his is right…"

Erik held her tighter, reveling in the feel of her. How long had such an image haunted him? How many times had he tried to drive it out? And now it was very much real, and he could hardly believe it.

Then, a painful jolt from his shoulder made him hiss in irritation, and Christine immediately backed up. "Your shoulder," she murmured. "Forgive me, I had forgotten-"

"There is nothing to forgive," Erik replied softly, brushing the tears from her face.

"I must put more of that salve on it, Erik," she insisted, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were still lingering at her sides. "Where is it?"

"In my room," Erik replied. "Christine, it isn't necessary. You are in no shape to-"

"And neither are you," she interrupted him, taking him by the hand and guiding him into the hall. "If you don't treat that shoulder, it will only get worse. Even you know that."

"I can't remember the way," she told him, relieved that it was dark so he could not see her blush.

Erik sighed. "I don't need-"

"Stop arguing and take me to your room."

Something in her tone, perhaps it was merely that she was ordering him to do something, convinced him to listen to her.

۞

**Author's Note: **A heap of apologies for not replying to my last chapter's reviewers. I've been a bit swamped lately withan unexpected rush of very bewildering events, but I hope to make time for this chapter's response. Thanks so much to all of you!


	7. Devotion

۞

_**Chapter Six:**_

_Devotion_

۞

A curious thrill ran through Erik as he took Christine's hand and led her through the silent house. The only noise was Christine's soft breathing as she trotted to keep up with him. Her white nightgown and robe, translucent in the moonlight streaming through the windows, billowed around her thin limbs as she glided across the floor, her equally pale skin making her seem almost ethereal.

He looked back frequently, feeling as though he needed to make sure she was still attached to hand he held, and each time she was staring right back at him, her eyes shadowed and unreadable.

_What endless longings echo in this whisper…?_

His room was pitch black when they entered, and he left her in the doorway to light some candles. When the darkness had been replaced with a golden glow, he turned back to face her, and was speechless.

She was facing away from him, slowly tugging off her robe and depositing it across the back of a chair. Her silhouette was evident through the nightgown, the round curve of her hips and length of her thighs revealed under his gaze. She carelessly swept her dark masses of hair over her shoulder, rolling up her sleeves purposefully, though her hands shook slightly.

"Have you used the balm—" Her tone was practical as she pivoted to look at him, but it weakened considerably as she saw the yearning in his eyes. "—Since I visited…?" She struggled to keep his gaze.

"No," Erik replied, his voice husky. He cleared his throat, cursing himself for the desire he let her stir in him. He looked at said balm, where it rested on his bedside table, pointedly, and she moved forward to retrieve it.

Fumbling with the plain container nervously, she gestured to the bed. "You'll have to sit down." When he did so, she added coyly, "And remove your shirt."

She heard him take a deep breath, and then he silently unbuttoned the garment and slid it off. She was thankful he was not looking at her, for she blushed fiercely at the sight of his bare chest. He had been shirtless throughout the two days she had cared for him, but now that he was awake and very much aware of her administrations, she saw him in a completely different light.

His shoulders were broader than Raoul's, and he had not lost any of the strength she remembered from the Opera Populaire. The Nice sun had done him good, darkening his once pale skin to a smooth bronze, making her tiny white hands stand out dramatically against it.

"Tell me if I hurt you," she murmured, sitting down beside him and slowly unwinding the bandages. The gash looked better, but it was still slightly swollen and a faint pink rimmed the edges. Erik hissed as she began to rub the salve into it, scooping it out of the jar with two fingers and massaging it over the wound in rhythmic, circular motions.

"Do you have any idea how you injured yourself?" She asked, uncomfortable in the tense silence.

"Jumping out the window…at the Marchands'…" He flinched as she went over a particularly sensitive spot, torn between pain and pleasure. He was deeply aware of every movement her fingers made, picking up every rustle of her nightgown as she shifted around, every intake and exhale of breath. It took every ounce of control he had not to spin around and pull her to him.

"Christine, I do not mean to pry," he started, and felt her hand slow somewhat. He was afraid of her response, but the question would be eating away at him for weeks if he did not ask. "But, yourself and the Comte…your divorce, is it only because of the child…?"

Her voice was horribly cool as she replied. "For the most part. It has been three years, so there are obviously more reasons…but, that was what the argument was over." She laughed as she started to wrap fresh gauze around his shoulder, a cold, cheerless chuckle so unlike her that frightened him. "You know he was completely drunk out of his mind, when I left him? I wouldn't be surprised if he awoke tomorrow and couldn't remember why I wasn't there." She tore off the end of the bandage with a vicious tug.

He hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "Do you love him?" When she did not answer, he feared she had begun crying again, but her eyes were dry when he turned. Her countenance was one of unbridled misery, however, so striking and genuine that he almost found he preferred the tears.

"I love the Raoul I knew before," she replied honestly, giving Erik a mournful smile. "The one that sung me lullabies from our childhood, before I went to sleep, and the one who never strayed from my side during the pregnancy, during the first year of our marriage. After that…everything seemed to wither away with Phillipe's death."

"I am truly sorry, Christine," Erik told her, just as honestly as she. He felt abruptly that he could not hold too much resentment for Raoul de Chagny—he could not hate him for loving Christine, like he himself had loved her. He could not hate the man for trying to save her, with the best intentions in mind.

Erik had realized that Christine almost certainly was better off with the Vicomte, when Erik had been in the state of mind. He had been driven mad with jealousy and obsession, but these four years away from Christine had finally taught him that he could survive without her—it was a dull, gray survival, but it was survival nonetheless.

"You are, aren't you," she said softly, appreciatively. She reached up and gently ran her fingers across his one revealed cheek, her sorrowful expression melting away into one of dreamy thoughtfulness. "I believed you for dead," she whispered, tracing his jaw line. His eyes bore into hers. "When I saw you, at the ball…" Her voice broke off, and she simply looked at him in wonderment.

Slowly, he brought his hand up to cover hers, and their fingers entwined. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest as he guided the hand away from his face, down his neck, across his collarbone…

All at once, she leaned forward; his free hand snaked around the small of her back, and he brought his lips down to claim hers.

The kiss seemed to move in slow motion, hesitant lips caressing hesitant lips, warm and honeyed and new. Then, with one mellifluous gesture, he pushed her on to his lap and pressed her against him, and it was transformed into something else. Their hands were still clasped, caught between each heaving chest as mouths meshed together, both fiercely fighting for dominance. Christine wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling herself closer, aching inwardly as she felt his bare skin against her. Every thought flew from her head, except to somehow remove any barrier left between them.

Erik felt elation bubble and burst inside of him as Christine moaned in the back of her throat. He ran his tongue across her bottom lip and she gave him entrance willingly, letting him explore every nook and cavern in her mouth. God, she was perfect, so delicate yet forward, pleading him for more as she tangled one hand in his hair. He did not deserve this, any of it…it was not his…

Abruptly he pulled away, and she gaped at him. "Erik…" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and he almost moved forward again, but he stopped himself just in time. He could not believe he was pushing away what he had wanted for so long, what he had _needed_…

Tenderly, he moved her off his knee and back onto the bed, though she would not release his hand. "Erik," she repeated worriedly, looking at him in confusion.

"No, Christine," he said, choking on his own words. "You're a married woman, even if not for very much longer, and I…"

She frowned a little, and, looking disappointed, got to her feet. "No, you're right, Erik." She sighed. "Even if I don't like it."

He got up and helped her put her robe back on, his hands lingering on her shoulders before letting her go to the door. "Can you find your way back?"

"I'll be fine," she replied, now smiling. "Goodnight, Erik."

He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles for a long moment, never breaking eye contact. Secretly pleased as she breathed in sharply, he released her. "Goodnight, Christine."

With a flutter of white, she vanished into the darkness.

۞

He could not see clearly. The words were blurred and uneven on the parchment, warping and twisting as Raoul squinted to read them.

"You have heard from us once already. Do not take our warnings lightly. One of our own will come to you tomorrow—be ready."

His glass fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. Collapsing onto the desk, his body shook with gasping sobs. Eventually, the mixture of alcohol and heartbreak lulled him into a fitful, nightmare-plagued sleep.

۞

Christine awoke to a soft, chiming melody; so airy and pleasant that she thought she was still lost in dreams. But with a faint click the music started to repeat, and she knew she was conscious. She opened her eyes, and for a moment she was back underneath the Opera Populaire, sprawled across the swan bed, the Persian monkey clinging its symbols together at her feet.

Then the bright sunlight blurred her vision, reflecting off the pristine white lace of the bedspread, and she groaned. She pulled the sheets over her head and longed to lie in the warm shelter forever, pushing herself down into the mattress. She was so delightfully comfortable…

The song continued its playing, however, and she was sorely reminded that she was expected to do something other than sleep for the rest of the day. Raising her head, she searched for the source of the melody, and caught sight of an ornate little music box resting on the vanity, about the size of a fist, its lid off and the petite figure of a ballerina pirouetting on the surface.

She smiled curiously, easing herself from the bed and moving over to the vanity to examine the little trinket more closely. The dancer continued her spinning around the gold trimmed exterior, the rest of the ceramic box painted a deep shade of purple.

Christine did not need to wonder who put it in her room. She blushed lightly as she thought of Erik entering while she was still asleep, placing the charming gift where she would see it when she awoke, then perhaps lingering for a moment to watch her in her slumber.

"Madame?" A tiny voice disturbed Christine's fantasy, and she turned, startled, to her room door. A young girl in maid's attire stood there, looking no older than fifteen or sixteen, her wide green eyes watching Christine with awe as she nervously twined a strand of wavy blonde hair around one finger. She immediately stopped as Christine transferred her gaze from the music box, and stood up straight as a board.

"Monsieur de la Rue said his female guest would need assistance in dressing," she uttered shyly, her small mouth giving Christine a sweet, if anxious smile.

"Oh!" Christine replied suddenly, returning the smile with enthusiasm. "Yes, please, that would be…" She sighed, laughing a little, "Wonderful."

The girl, looking relieved, came in and closed the door behind her, then approached the closet. "My name is Anisette," she said after a moment, stepping out of the closet with Christine's green dress in her arms.

"I am Christine," said woman replied warmly, as Anisette nodded.

"You are the Comtesse de Chagny, are you not?"

Christine felt her spirits drop a little. "How did you recognize me?"

"I regularly work at Baron Marchand's residence," she replied, helping Christine remove her nightgown. "You have been there many times."

A glimmer of recognition appeared in Christine's eyes. "Of course, I've seen you before! Forgive me, my memory tends to fail me from time to time." She gave Anisette a smiling shrug.

"It is nothing, Madame le Comtesse," Anisette replied brightly.

"Actually, I would prefer to only be addressed as Madame, or Christine, if you would," the brunette said with embarrassment, as her shift was pulled over her head and Anisette started on the ties of her corset. "I am afraid Monsieur le Comte and I will not be married for much longer."

Anisette gave a little gasp. "Oh, Madame, I am so sorry…"

Christine again shrugged, her eyes downcast. She struggled for breath as the corset tightened, but her lungs adjusted quickly from experience. "You remind me of a friend I once had, Anisette," she told the maid wistfully. "When I once lived in the Paris Opera House, I knew a girl named Meg. She had the same beautiful blonde hair that you do."

Anisette flushed prettily at the compliment, mumbling protestations. Then, she said with interest, "I heard you sing for Monsieur Marchand, on his birthday. It must have been hard to give up the life of a famous diva to marry your husband."

"I missed it terribly, for a while," Christine admitted, enjoying the luxury of having a girl to confide in. She had never had the desire to say anything of her former life to Adèle, always ridiculously afraid that Raoul was standing just outside the door listening. "But marriage is busy, and many things accompany it that take your mind off the past…"

"I would certainly not want to forget being onstage," Anisette said with confidence.

Christine only nodded.

When she was fully dressed, Anisette moved on to her hair, brushing it thoroughly. The vanity drawers seemed to be stocked with every item a woman could want to beautify herself, and Christine chose a black ribbon that Anisette used to pull her curls back in a simple ponytail.

When she was finished, Christine asked her what the time was.

"Not yet eleven o'clock, Madame. Breakfast is served in the dining room, Monsieur de la Rue told me to inform you, though I'm not familiar with the household yet, so I can't show you where it is…and he also told me to tell you that he would be in his studio if you need anything."

"Thank you…I suppose I shall seek out the dining room then." Christine exited her room, Anisette staying behind to tidy things up.

۞

Christine found the dining room, and breakfast, after ten minutes of discovering new rooms and chatting with Beaumont in the foyer. She had become fond of Erik's buoyant butler, with his enthusiastic affection and eagerness to please. He offered to lead her directly to the dining room, but she told him she didn't mind exploring a little bit more.

The breakfast was set only for herself, so she assumed Erik had already eaten. She did not find herself very hungry at all, so she simply grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and decided to spend a little time familiarizing herself with the house.

Erik must have designed it to be completely baffling to everyone but him, for Christine had never seen such careful artistry or maze of corridors that made up his home. Every banister was beautifully carved, every rug or painting chosen to perfectly correspond with the atmosphere. It was as though, Christine realized suddenly, admiring a particularly striking painting of a flame in the darkness, Erik had created this manor to live forever in their last opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_. He had condemned himself to be haunted by his failed attempt to seduce her, as long as he lived in this house.

This thought pained Christine beyond comprehension. She had spent the last week trying to decipher what exactly it was that she wanted from Erik. Now that she was getting a divorce, and was living with him for the time being…could she perhaps recreate the relationship she had torn to shreds four years before? Was it what she wanted?

Yes. Yes, she loved Erik, she had mourned their dead love, and she had slowly been being eaten away by guilt before she saved him from his fever. She had loved him from the first moment he shared his music with her, and though he had terrified her with his passion bordering on insane obsession, she could not find it in her to hate him.

She had never forgotten one particular argument her and Raoul had had, when she had still lived in the Opera house, and they were only just engaged. She had defended her Angel of Music when Raoul had proclaimed him a cruel monster for kidnapping her, and he had replied, tears of jealousy in his eyes,

"Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, those are all just love…and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves…"

Why she had not listened to him then, and saved all three of them from four years of suffering, she could not say. She had been naïve, still a child in mourning for her father, and she could not handle adult emotions. _Yet you married Raoul._

Grimacing, she turned away from the painting; unsettled by the memories it stirred.

Her feet eventually led her back to the parlor from the night before, the chestnut-coloured curtains now pulled back with warm sunlight streaming into the room. The walls were a creamy yellow, and the furniture was upholstered to match.

The piano looked even more magnificent as she approached it, the name of the maker written in gold leaf on the casing. She lifted it and ran her fingers across the smooth ivory keys. Then, placing her nearly finished apple on the edge of a bookshelf and glancing up at the doorway to make sure no one was watching, she played a simple melody her father had taught her long ago. Every note was clear and defined in the smothering quiet of the manor, and she thought with anxiety that Erik was sure to hear her in his studio, hoping fervently her playing wouldn't anger him.

When, after several tense minutes he did not come storming into the room, she dared to play another song, short and sweet like the one before. Smiling in childish glee, she sang the words to the tune under her breath as she pushed down the glossy keys, reveling in the lovely familiar sound. She speculated at why Erik never used the piano, yet kept it perfectly in tune. He had countless eccentricities, she said, dismissing the thought and simply enjoying herself.

After testing the piano a few more times, she closed it again and left the room, steeling herself as she decided to seek out Erik and ask if he wanted to accompany her on a walk. Her mind strayed to the previous night as she tried to recall where the studio was, and she found herself blushing even though no one was near. He had kissed her with such raw yearning that it frightened her, yet excited her at the same time. She would not have stopped if he hadn't reminded her she was still wedded to Raoul.

But, then again, even if she wasn't, Erik was not her husband.

_What if he was?_

Suddenly, doubt filled her. Maybe she loved Erik, but how could he ever trust her? What if he had kissed her yesterday evening, then shunned her today, changing his mind after remembering her betrayal? How could he forget it? How could she prove him that this time, she truly would not leave him?

_You're not divorced quite yet, _she told herself, trying to relax. _Don't already start making plans for another wedding._

She was encompassed with guilt, as she thought of Raoul, alone in the Chagny estate, drinking away his miseries. _You are saving him. You left him to save him; it is the only way… _Yes, Raoul needed someone who would love him and only him, and that was not she. She had spent their marriage pining for another man, and he deserved a woman who adored him as much as he would adore her. Christine could only hope Raoul would realize this and not set himself up for a life of solitary sorrow.

Finally, she came to a door that looked familiar, and Christine knocked softly.

"Enter." Erik's voice was muffled through the thick wood. Biting her lip, Christine turned the knob and stepped inside.

He was standing at his easel, a pallet in one hand and a brush at the other. When he saw who it was, he hastily put both articles down on the bench in the alcove of the window and covered his painting. She waited at the door politely, sneaking glances at him as he moved around. He had undone several of the buttons on his, as usual, white shirt, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbows, giving her a liberal view of his chest and muscular forearms. The bandage on his shoulder was barely noticeable, except for a slight bulge in the fabric.

When he came over to help her down the few steps that led from the door to the sunken in studio, however, he adjusted the shirt so it was done up properly again, and she could not help but sigh disappointedly.

"Good morning, Christine. I trust you slept well."

His eyes, unwaveringly intense, did not leave her face, and he held on to her hand longer than was necessary.

_An excellent sign, _she thought in spite of her earlier self-scolding. "I did," she replied, and then smiled brightly at him. "Thank you for the music box."

"I thought you would appreciate it," he said, in way of explanation, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I—I thought we might go for a walk," she said quickly, praying that she did not blush.

"A walk?" Both surprise and something akin to pleasure flashed across his eyes.

"Yes, along the beach, perhaps—it is such a lovely day," she said falteringly, gesturing to the window.

"Yes, it is…Very well, be in the entrance hall in five minutes or so—I shall be ready then."

She could not contain her cheerful grin as she replied. "I shall." Standing on tiptoe, she planted a kiss on his one revealed cheek. Blushing furiously, she the left the room to seek out Anisette and ask if she could borrow a shawl.

۞

Erik felt oddly nervous as he tied his cravat, standing in front of his bedroom mirror. He had never thought he would enjoy the simple pleasure of going for a stroll with a woman, such things had always seemed alien to him. When Christine had suggested it, he had almost thought she was joking. Then her cheeks turned pink and he realized she had been completely serious. He could have laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it. He, Erik, the Phantom, the Trapdoor Lover, was taking a soothing walk along the shores of Nice for pleasure—with the Comtesse de Chagny, no less!

He came down the stairs in high spirits, to find Christine already at the door, again talking merrily with Beaumont. The butler appeared to be telling her an amusing story about his childhood, but Erik hardly noticed. He only had eyes for her.

The yellow gown she wore was off the shoulder, and she had wrapped herself in a plain linen shawl, that did not look like part of a Comtesse's wardrobe. She was the very image of sunlight and happiness however, and when she turned as she heard his footsteps, he felt his heart skip a beat as she beamed at him.

"Shall we go?" He asked, offering her his arm. She took it with one white, gloved hand, and Beaumont opened the door. Erik did not miss his butler's knowing smirk as he led Christine out, and was surprised when it did not bother him in the slightest bit.

They walked slowly along the boardwalk, and Erik was amazed at how easily conversation came. Christine asked him how it was teaching Dion, and Erik plunged into a detailed critique of the boy's talent. She laughed cheerfully at his little sarcastic comments, and her replies were surprisingly insightful. He somehow always pictured her as a beautiful doll, and had never thought of her on an intellectual level. Though she had not had much schooling, she knew nearly as much about music as he did between his teachings and her father. She also knew her history, and literature, but in all other areas she was completely uninformed.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment, and Erik took the time to silently admire the sun. The weather was near perfect, a balmy wind coming in from the sea so the sunlight was not unbearably hot, even though he was already getting warm in his black dress clothes that he always wore. The smell of the sea was refreshing, and Christine seemed to revel in it. Her eyes took on a certain wistful look as she gazed out onto the ocean, he noticed.

"I used to live by the sea, you know, with my father."

_Ah, that explains it. _His silence encouraged her to continue.

"He used to come down onto the beach and play his violin for me, and I would sing for him… That was where I first met…" The hand on his arm tightened as she trailed off. After a pause, she swallowed and continued. "After that, Madame Giry took me to the Opera house, and I always used to have dreams of us just sitting in the sand…and it was just like it used to be."

Erik hoped desperately as she raised a hand to her eyes that she would not begin to cry, and spoil the walk after it had gone so well. When she turned to him with a clear gaze, he sighed with relief. The relief vanished with her next question, however.

"How did you come to live at the Opera house, Erik? I always meant to ask you." She laughed briefly, then added, "I meant to ask you so many things that I never got around to."

When he did not answer, she looked at him again. His brow was furrowed, his eyes troubled with some nameless pain. "Oh, forgive me, I did not mean to pry," she said quickly, frowning. "You need not answer."

"I am sorry, Christine. It is only-" He gave her a meaningful stare, trying to think of the right words.

"Hush, I understand. But someday, Erik, I will sit you down, and you will tell me your life story." She sounded so sure of herself that he found himself believing her.

"And I will tell you then, Christine. I promise."

"You do?" She asked, startled. "You've never promised me anything before."

"And you've never kept any of the promises you made me," he replied, sounding more curt than he had intended. She gave him a hurt look.

"I thought we had talked about that already," she said softly.

_Don't make an ass of yourself. _"Yes, and that did _wonders_ for my tragic past, Christine." He couldn't help himself. His voice was thick with sarcasm.

She bit her lip and turned away so he could not see her expression.

Cursing himself, he said immediately, "Forgive me…Christine, I'm trying not to-"

He was cut off when she spun around and embraced him forcefully, securing her arms tightly around his waist and burrowing into his chest. He went stock still for a moment, then hesitantly wrapped his arms around her back and kept her close.

"Let's stop apologizing to each other," she mumbled against him. "I'm sorry, and you're sorry, and we know that now. Please, let's just move on."

He kissed the top of her head tenderly. "I would never want to hurt you, Christine."

She tilted her head up and looked at him. "I know it is hard to trust me again," she said slowly, with an ashamed countenance. "But I will prove myself to you, one way or another, Erik."

He gazed down at her for a moment, near bursting with a sudden swell of love. "Do not look at me so, Christine," he told her quietly, "or I will be tempted to kiss you again."

"I wouldn't mind," she said, smiling suddenly.

"You're married."

She gave him a disbelieving look, then let go of him, and he automatically missed her touch. "Have it your way, then," she said aloofly, moving so they were several feet apart. She picked up her skirts and meandered leisurely, smirking mischievously.

He gaped at her, wondering where on earth this unfamiliar, bold woman had come from. _God forbid…_ Was she _flirting_ with him?

He did not move as she continued on, and she stopped a little ways away, the smirk still on her face. "Are you coming or not, Monsieur de la Rue?" Her hips swayed as she took a few more steps.

Whatever she's doing, it's bloody damned well working.

With a low growl, he took two long strides and enfolded her in his arms, meeting her lips almost violently. She returned the kiss desperately, and he could feel her smile as he raised her off her feet.

When they finally broke apart for air, he muttered, "Seducing wench."

Her only reply was that same playful smirk.

۞

Raoul's head felt as though someone had thrust an axe into it. He massaged his temple tenderly, groaning softly. He was a complete wreck, he knew, and it would probably only strengthen his visitor's resolve when he caught sight of him.

Lord, of all things, I do not need this. I did not ask for any of it.

The door to his study opened, and Raoul looked up to see a towering, dark haired man staring at him with penetrating gray eyes. His suit completely black, and he carried with him only a blank envelope. "Monsieur le Comte," the man said in greeting. His voice was like ice, cold and slick. It sent shivers down Raoul's spine, and he paled considerably.

"Whatever your demands are, I will not meet them," he told the man, sounding a great deal more confident than he felt. "It is a great honour to bear the Chagny title, and I will not shame my predecessors by surrendering to your filthy Commune."

The man laughed, a short, barking laugh that only increased Raoul's headache. The look of nasty superiority that crossed the man's face filled him with dread.

"We shall see, Monsieur, we shall see." He came and sat across from Raoul at the desk. "It was unwise to ignore our orders early on. My commander has now raised the fee." He handed Raoul the envelope. "Three hundred thousand, no less."

"You're insane," Raoul spat, dropping it as though it was poison. "You know I won't pay."

"You will either pay with money, Monsieur, or with your life."

"What good am I dead to your people? You won't kill me; you need me to get access to the Chagny fortune."

"Then perhaps alternate means of persuasion…" The man trailed off suggestively, his thick eyebrows arching. "I did not see your charming wife when I was brought in."

Rage twisted a knot in Raoul's stomach. "She is currently indisposed," he replied, grinding his teeth, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill over.

"Well, my superiors have been longing to meet with her. She is said to be a lovely woman. Perhaps I will pay her a visit, before I leave Nice." He got to his feet, moving back to the door. Then, quietly, he spoke again. "Yes, Monsieur, I think watching over your wife would be a very wise thing to do."

Raoul froze. "What are you suggesting?" He asked, horror written plainly across his face.

"What ever you might think I am, Monsieur." Then, with an inclination of his head, he left.

The Comte de Chagny screamed blankly in fury, picking up a bottle from his desk and hurling it against the wall. Panting heavily, he sunk to the floor, leaning against a bookshelf. He put his head in his hands.

They're going to take Christine. They're going to take her, and they're going to kill her. If it's the last thing you do, Chagny, you'll save her.

Grimly, he reached up to his desk and opened the envelope.

"You will learn to respect us," it read, "Or you will suffer under us."

With a snarl, he tore the paper to shreds. Then, getting to his feet, he called for his butler. "Deniau! Bring 'round the carriage—I wish to visit Monsieur Marchand."

۞

**Author's Note: **The Paris Commune occurred four years before this story is set, but for writing purposes I am altering history. Bwahaha. Sorry for the longer-than-usual wait!


	8. Lament

۞

_**Chapter Seven:**_

_Lament_

۞

"You're humming!"

"An incredibly astute observation." Erik gave Christine what she could've sworn was a mocking grin as he led her up the stone steps in front of his house.

She rolled her eyes, but her tone was friendly when she said, "It's just that I haven't heard someone humming in a very long time."

Erik raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Music had no part in my life, after I left the Opera." She frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose…Raoul and I just found it had too many painful memories attached to it."

"I noticed that you sounded out of practice at Dion's birthday celebration."

She gave him a slightly offended look. "Is that all you think about?"

"No," was his simply response, as he gazed at her meaningfully. She blushed. "You have been without a teacher for a long time, Christine. It would be remarkable if you maintained your sound."

"Then perhaps you should teach me again what I have forgotten."

His eyes sparked in sudden interest, and, taking hold of her hand, he opened the front door. Beaumont tumbled forward with a cry, sputtering that he had most certainly _not_ been eavesdropping. Erik gave him a perturbed look and dismissed the incident with a wave of his hand, pulling Christine inside and through the entrance hall.

"Erik, where are we-" She stammered, bunching her skirts up in a fist as she tried to keep up with him.

"Why, to teach you what you have forgotten," he exclaimed as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, tugging her along.

"_Now?_" She asked breathlessly.

"Did you have a certain time in mind?"

"Well—_no_, but…" She trailed off as he led her into the parlor, letting go of her hand and stepping behind the piano.

"It is still in tune, from what I heard earlier," he said, and she knew he had listened when she had played it that morning. He slid gracefully onto the bench and lifted up the case, running his fingers down the keys. He played a few scales at first, making even the simplest exercise beautiful with his expertise.

Christine lingered in the doorframe, smiling faintly as Erik's soothing, skillful playing washed over her. She watched in fascination as he began to play a proper song, a striking melody she did not recognize. It reminded her vividly of a sunrise, the glowing sliver of the sun encompassing nearby clouds in red fire as it appeared on the horizon. Erik closed his eyes, losing himself in his music, and they stayed like that for several minutes; Christine transfixed by Erik's composition and the man himself in another world entirely.

When he opened his eyes again, he gave her a startled look, as though he had forgotten she was there.

"That was very lovely," she murmured. "I do not recognize it."

"It is one of my own pieces," Erik replied stoically.

"I would love to hear the rest of it."

"Some other time, perhaps." He motioned for her to come forward, and she took a few cautious steps.

"I feel very foolish," she said suddenly, grimacing.

"Why?"

"Well…What if—what if the servants hear me?"

Erik gave her an utterly bewildered look, then, to Christine's surprise, chuckled—a rich, deep laugh at the back of his throat. "My dear, you are _hardly_ so out of practice that you should be _embarrassed_ to sing." She only looked more abashed, and he added, "Besides, I doubt any of the servants here could tell if you made a mistake."

"I suppose you're right," she finally said, laughing nervously. Removing her shawl, she came to stand beside the piano, resting a hand on its sleek surface.

"I think we shall start with something familiar; perhaps an old favourite?" He gave a lengthy introduction on the piano, and Christine smiled as she identified the melody.

"Ah! Reste, reste encore, en mes bras enlacés! Reste encore! Reste encore! Un jour il sera doux à notre amour fidèle, de se resouvenir de ses tourments passes."

Ah! Stay, stay awhile in my arms intertwined! Stay awhile! Stay awhile! One day it will be sweet for our true love, to remember again our past torments.

It was Christine's favourite scene from _Roméo et Juliette_, an opera Erik had taught her when she was but fourteen. She had been entranced by the tragic love story, but her own past made it now seem bittersweet. Nevertheless, she graced Erik with a remembering smile and sang Juliette's part.

"Il faut partir, hélas! Il faut quitter ses bras où je te presse et t'arracher à cette ardente ivresse!"

_You must go, alas; you must leave these arms where I press you and wrench free from this ardent ecstasy!_

Then, together,

"_Il faut partir, hélas! Il faut quitter ces bras_**-**"

"Où je te presse-"

"Elle me presse-"

"Et t'arracher-"

"M'arracher-"

"_À cette ardente ivresse! Ah! Que le sort qui de toi me sépare plus que la mort est cruel et barbare! Il faut partir, hélas! Il faut quitter ses bras où je te presse et t'arracher à cette ardente ivresse! C'en est fait de cette ardente ivresse!_"

_You must go, alas; you must leave these arms-_

_Where I press you-_

_She presses me-_

_And wrench free from this ardent ecstasy! Ah, how fate, which separates me from you, is more cruel and barbaric than death! You must go, alas; you must leave these arms where I press you and wrench free from this ardent ecstasy! It's all over with this ardent ecstasy!_

Christine had balled her hand tightly into a fist sometime during the course of the song, the depth of the libretto cutting straight to her heart. When Erik stopped playing, she shuddered and slowly unclenched her fingers, the knuckles white from the pressure. She looked over at her companion, who watched her with a critical eye.

There was a short silence, then,

"Your breathing is horrible."

Christine glared daggers at him. He shrugged. "And you're off by two beats in the third verse. Start again."

So went the rest of the afternoon.

۞

Dion had been fully prepared to hate the Comte when he next laid eyes on him. Any man who had the effrontery to upset a woman so easy to adore as Christine, must be an idiotic thug. But the sorry sight that met Dion's eyes when the man was brought into the parlor vanquished any foul thoughts he might have for Raoul de Chagny.

His skin was a pasty white, and the dark hollows under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. They were swollen, making the Dion assume that the man had been crying. He sat down stiffly on the settee in front of the coffee table, while Dion sat in an armchair to the man's left.

"There is no easy way to put this, Monsieur," the Comte began, his voice raspy. He brushed his hair away from his face and licked his dry lips. "Am I correct in assuming that you know the whereabouts of my wife?"

"I do, Monsieur le Comte," Dion replied guardedly. "Though I cannot tell you them, for her privacy's sake."

The Comte turned to him with a wide-eyed stare, his face contorted with grief. "In all due respect, Monsieur, it is absolutely necessary that I know her location immediately—for her safety."

"What do you mean?"

The Comte's hand shook as he brought one up to rub the bridge of his nose. "My vacation to Nice was only partly for my wife's health—the Paris Commune had been in contact with me."

Dion abruptly understood the man's astonishingly bad health, the horrible pallor of his skin…the disturbed look in his eyes. The Paris Commune, from what Dion had heard, was a group of rebels that had started to terrorize France's capital just barely two months earlier, members of its vicious league hunting down the aristocracy and demanding payment if the families wanted to secure their well-being. If you did not pay up, they would take you and kill you. The Parisian rivers were running red with Noble blood, and thus far the rest of France had done nothing.

And now they had stretched one greedy hand down into Nice, all for a taste of the Chagny wealth.

"They have found me again."

"How?" Dion murmured, fear leaking into his voice. "How could they possibly know…?"

"It was in no way a secret that my wife and I were leaving for a 'holiday'. It would have been child's play to them, finding out where I was. Or perhaps I have a spy in my household, I cannot say, Monsieur—but they have threatened me with her life." He let out a strangled sob and covered his eyes with both his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. "I have to find her, Monsieur—I have to save her."

His voice was filled with such sorrowful sincerity that Dion felt his heart breaking for this man, who so obviously still loved his wife, but knew that it could now never be.

"I will take you to her," Dion told the man, praying that he was making the right decision. The Comte looked up suddenly, fresh hope in his eyes. "But what do you plan to tell her?"

"I…" His brow furrowed in thought. "I will send her away. To England, or Sweden, somewhere she is familiar with, where they wouldn't look for her. I need to get her out of France."

"So far north? Would it not be easier to send her to Italy? Traveling to both England and Sweden leads her straight up to Paris first."

"She can travel by sea, from the Bay of Biscay. Or take a train up to Brest and launch from there. Though it would take more time, it would not be hard to avoid Paris and still reach a country she is familiar with. She was born in Sweden, and we have gone on holiday to England twice before."

Dion nodded thoughtfully, trying to wall up his mind from any emotions, as the Comte seemed to be doing as he planned the Comtesse's trip aloud. "She cannot go alone."

Raoul sighed despairingly. "And I could not go with her either, for, one, I must stay and protect my family's legacy, and two, I doubt she would have me." He gave Dion a feeble smile. "I made such an idiot of myself."

"You…are prepared for a divorce, then?" Dion asked carefully, afraid that he might trigger the man's misery, or anger, or both.

Raoul went even whiter, but his voice was steady enough when he said, "Divorce is too obvious—she will disappear, and then if—no, _when_, France takes action and this all settles, we will say she fell victim to _them_."

Dion hesitated. "Don't you think that's a little unfair to Christine? She'd never be able to use her real name again, never show her face in Paris…"

"She would, after a time—though I doubt she would want to return anyways," Raoul replied. "And it is the easiest way for us to separate without causing a scandal."

"It just seems so—_drastic_."

"If there was another way, believe me," his voice shook, "I would use it. But Christine de Chagny will be no more."

"So be it." Dion straightened up. "Did you have a guide for her in mind?"

Dion found he had come to greatly respect the Comte de Chagny all in one visit, and his respect only grew when the man bravely raised his chin and said, "I believe he goes by the name _Erik_?"

۞

Christine self-consciously ran her hand down the bodice of her gown, smoothing the rich blue satin. She put a pair of small diamond studs in ears, after finding them in a velvet box in one of the vanity's drawers. She appreciated the commodity but resolved to ask Erik why he had stocked the room with such extensive feminine accoutrements.

Now that Christine was his…_mistress_, of sorts, she felt she had the right to ask. Of course, knowing Erik he would probably deny everything, become extremely moody and then storm off to his room. Perhaps she would leave such questions for another night.

She pulled the ribbon from her hair and let her brown tresses drape over her shoulders, biting her lips to bring colour into them. A glint of gold from her finger distracted her, and she stopped her grooming.

She stared at Raoul's wedding ring, torn. She had refused to let herself sit down and think about the colossal choice she was making by ending their marriage, knowing she would end up moping around the house for days. Now, she felt tears prick her eyes as she looked at her only token to remember him by, and was suddenly ashamed of herself. He had probably sunken into a horrible depression, whereas she had paraded around Erik's house, enjoying his embrace and returning his kisses—no, he returning _her_ kisses! She was the seducer now, and Erik the seduced, while Raoul rotted in his misery!

The hand she had laid over the ring, preparing to pull it off, moved away.

_No,_ she thought, sucking in a deep breath. _Not yet._ She would have to explain to Erik that she couldn't…see him as a lover again, until she was properly divorced and had truly put Raoul behind her. Lord, Erik would hate her for teasing him one minute, and refusing him the next, just as she had been confused by his mixed responses to her.

But above all things, she had to be honest. So, now, she would go have a pleasant, innocent dinner with Erik, then wish him a cheerful, platonic goodnight and retire. And he would have to understand—she prayed he would understand.

She walked lightly down the hall, the sound of her footsteps echoing around her in the emptiness. Erik must find it so lonely, living by himself in such an odd house. Then she thought back to the issue of female companionship and her momentary pang of pity was forgotten.

As she approached the foyer, she heard hushed voices, and immediately tensed. Erik had visitors? She recognized his unmistakable baritone dominant in the conversation, but the other voices were so quiet she could barely make them out.

She came to the end of the corridor at last, stepping cautiously out of the cover of shadow and into the candlelight. Erik stood at the door in full evening dress, and she assumed he had just prepared for their dinner, and come downstairs to find the visitors. There were two men; the first, she was delighted to see, was Dion Marchand. She stepped forward to greet him, but then caught sight of the other guest.

_Raoul._

His face was haggard, his lips pursed in displeasure as Erik spoke, and Christine could see the blatant dislike in his eyes. His hands were twitching at his sides. He looked but a shell of the man she had known four years before; the man she had fallen in love with.

_Your love is poison._

Then, his eyes averted from Erik's face, and caught sight of her over the man's shoulder. His mouth dropped, and he froze. She felt her lungs contract as the other two men noticed Raoul's staring, and also transferred their gazes to her petite form.

Dion looked relieved, and Erik gave her a look of silent apology. "Christine, these men have something important they must discuss with us."

Christine managed to nod. "Our dinner…?" She asked, feeling like an idiot immediately afterwards. _Of course_ there would be no dinner.

"It will have to be postponed." He sighed, and with a terse gesture with his hand, he led the three into his study. Christine could feel Raoul's gaze still concentrated on her as she moved over to speak to Dion.

"It is good to see you well, Christine," the man said, with a warm smile. "I trust Erik has taken good care of you."

"Excellent care," she murmured. "What is going on?"

Dion's expression immediately turned grave. "It is best you are seated to hear this."

Christine's eyes widened, and she suddenly felt a spurge of irritation. Whatever it was Dion and Raoul had come to tell them, it was almost certain that it would ruin the ostensible oasis that had been beginning to form around her and Erik. She did not want to abandon it now, when things were going so well.

She chose a seat next to Erik on the settee, while Raoul and Dion sat in chairs on either side of them. Christine carefully avoided looking at Raoul, but when he spoke, she had no choice. She was too apprehensively curious.

"I have been recently visited by the Paris Commune," her husband said weakly, and Christine felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of freezing cold water over her head. Raoul had tried to shelter her from the incoming news when they had still been in the capital, but between the servants and her few outings, she had heard enough about this Commune to know exactly why Raoul and Dion had come.

Erik was stiff as a board beside her, his shrewd eyes locked on Raoul.

"They are plotting to kidnap-" he faltered, "-_you_, Christine. They will put a ransom on your head, to get our money. But even if I pay, the Commune is not known for its mercy. We three," he motioned to the other two men, "Agree that they would probably kill you."

_God in heaven. _Christine instinctively reached out and grabbed Erik's hand tightly, her breath quickening. The Commune was after _her_? They had come all the way to Nice? She knew the Chagnys had a vast legacy, but did it really mean that much to these people that they would travel to the other end of the country to obtain it? Why not bother Baron Marchand, who was undoubtedly richer? Though, she would not want Dion's father in danger either. She would not wish death at the hands of these brutes on anyone.

Erik shot her an unreadable glance as she held onto him, and he squeezed her palm reassuringly.

"You have to flee France, Christine," Dion said. "We were thinking England, or Sweden—your birthplace."

"Flee France?" Christine repeatedly blankly. "Could I ever come back?"

"If the Commune is destroyed, yes—and if that does not happen, it would probably be substantially safer after your…" Dion paused awkwardly, "After you have been disappeared for a while—when it is common knowledge."

"Am I to go alone?"

"I would go with you," Erik said beside her, his voice a small source of comfort. "If you would have me."

But instead of looking at him, she found my eyes drawn to Raoul. Regret and defeated acceptance played across his countenance as he stared straight back.

"I wish to be alone with my husband, for a moment," she said quietly, releasing Erik's hand. Both he and Dion got to their feet slowly, and it seemed to Christine that they took forever to leave the room and close the door behind them.

Then, she and Raoul sat in a painful silence, simply looking at each other.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," Raoul finally said, his voice choked.

She gave him a sad smile. "So am I."

"There's no way, when you return…or if, when this is all over, I came to you…There's not any chance that we…"

She let out a little sob, looking down at her ring. "We couldn't, Raoul. It would be the end of us."

"I thought you would say that." He sighed. "You realize, for this to work, you could never use your own name again—it would be as though you were dead."

"It's best that way," she replied, trying to put on a brave face in front of him. Then, they both stood.

"I love you, Christine," Raoul said simply, truthfully.

She wept openly, embracing him. "Goodbye," she whispered hoarsely. He held her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe, then suddenly released her and headed for the door.

She watched him helplessly, and then started. "Wait!"

He turned, bewildered.

Tugging the ring from her finger, she reached across the couch and offered it to him. "Take it."

He eyed the piece of jewelry reluctantly. "I couldn't."

"Take it," Christine repeated. "Give it to someone more deserving."

"There could be no one more deserving than you, Christine," he said softly, but he took the ring, and stepped out.

Christine sat back down, wrapping her arms around herself and pressing her knees together, as though she was afraid to touch anything. The hand she had taken the ring from felt bizarrely light, and she gazed at the faint sphere of white skin that had been underneath the wedding band.

_You must go, alas; you must leave these arms…_

The lines from _Roméo et Juliette _surfaced in her mind, and she bit back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her yet again, drawing blood from her bottom lip. She felt so out of place, suddenly, in Erik's luxurious study. Where did she belong now, that she was to leave France? _Who was she_? Not Christine Daaé, and no longer Christine de Chagny…For a moment she entertained the name Christine_ de la Rue_, but she immediately banished it.

_Who are you, to claim any man's name?_

She heard the door open again behind her, and Erik came to sit next to her.

"When do we leave?" She asked, without looking at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the hearth.

"As soon as possible—tomorrow, if arrangements can be made quickly enough." His tone was gentle, like he was handling a delicate porcelain doll, instead of speaking to a grown woman. "Christine-"

"Goodnight, Erik," she interrupted him. He would make her talk about it—she didn't want to talk to anyone.

۞

As soon as Christine shut the door behind her, Erik's head sunk into his hands and he groaned. She _loved_ the boy—lord, she had never stopped. Erik had been lured back into her arms with sweet smiles and sweeter kisses, and now it turned out that she had not even—

He sprung to his feet, kicking the leg of the settee and cursing loudly. He had been such a fool to believe, to even dare to entertain the idea that she might care for _him_, that she might be trustworthy once more. No, he disgusted her; she could not even look at him any more. She had realized too late that the Comte was more precious to her than she had thought. Who knew what had transpired between them after Erik and Dion left?

Erik admired the Comte, he grudgingly admitted, for having the strength to give Christine up to his one rival, even if it was for her safety. Erik could not honestly say that he was sure he could hand Christine over to Raoul to save her life—he had done it once, but now that she had given him a taste of something more than just her voice…He could not bear to give her up.

_But, how can you give up what was never truly yours?_

No, her heart had not belonged to him at all. He had been deceived by his pathetically hopeful imagination; thought the affection in her eyes when they were together was for him. She had only wanted protection, and now he could not even expel her from his house—he had made a promise to Dion to watch over her when she traveled—

And after she traveled?

_Then, Christine, your use for me will have expired. _He forced back his tears, letting only the jealousy and anger dominate him. _Then, I will leave you for good._

۞

She could not say how late it was when she heard the footsteps outside her door. Christine's head snapped up, her eyes widening fearfully, sure for a moment that the Commune had come to take her away. Raoul, Dion—they had all been too late, she would be whisked back to Paris, one of the many unidentified corpses that would be discovered after the Commune's reign was over, her body a mere statistic as they counted up the death toll.

Then, the person behind her door sighed. It was barely audible through the thick barrier, but it floated to Christine's ears, more beautiful than an Angel's serenade. No kidnapper would stand outside her room moaning despairingly; they would barge in, dagger drawn—

It was Erik only a few feet away. There was silence for a moment as he paused, most likely listening to see if she was asleep.

She held her breath as the footsteps gradually retreated, then slumped onto the mattress. She knelt at her bedside, her eyes swollen after her prayers had transformed into lamentation. She had cried, at last, for the husband she had pushed to the back of her mind. Her tears came with no end as she recalled her childhood friend and sole protector of four years, four years that, she realized with horror, started to fade from her mind like a dream would when she awoke in the mornings.

There would be no more reminders of her life before the Opera now, save the small portrait of her father that was her most treasured possession. A part of her had been lost tonight, a loss so palpable she had vomited out her window upon reaching her room. She had reached her crisis point at twenty, and was now alone in enduring the trials to defeat it.

_Not alone, _a voice at the back of her head said. _You have Erik._

She had not missed the hurt look he gave her when she walked out on him earlier. No, she could not depend on him any longer. This was her own personal test, and she had to overcome it herself. She could not unload all her trouble on his shoulders. She would need his protection, that was undeniable, but more than that, _much_ more, she needed his love.

She cherished Raoul, deeply, for what he represented.

She loved _Erik_, more than she herself could comprehend, for he was her other half. If he would only stand with her as she faced things, she knew she would survive.

If he would only stand with her.

۞

"Erik?"

"Christine," said man replied, tight lipped. He barely glanced at her before turning his attention back to his desk.

Christine swallowed, suddenly nervous. She had awoken late again, and, after Anisette had dressed her in her woolen gown, immediately gone in search of Erik. It had taken her a little while to find him, as he had not been in his studio like the day before, and she had been a little intimidated at the thought of intruding on him while he was working. He did not seem too pleased either.

"Good morning," she resorted to tradition, at a loss for words. He did not look up, or respond. "I wondered what our plans might be, for today," she said, a little flustered, hoping she did not sound stupid. How would she phrase what her question really was? _So, are we fleeing the country this afternoon, Erik?_

"Rather obvious, one would assume," he replied curtly. "I have purchased train tickets for us. We must be at the station by two o'clock, so I suggest you pack your belongings."

"How far are we traveling?"

"The trip to Brest will take about eight hours, including stops. We will spend the night in Brest, then board a ship for England."

He was so distant, his voice so cold that Christine shivered. Dread filled her, and she said in desperation, "Erik, I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly last night, but even _you_ must understand that I was upset."

"I thought you had said we were past apologizing to one another." He still did not look up as he spoke, and his tone did not change.

"Well, if you're going to be difficult," she snapped, irritated by his immature behaviour. "I only thought it would be easier to travel together if we managed to _get along_."

"Go pack your things, Christine," he told her, suddenly sounding tired.

"Not until you look at me."

He did so, raising an eyebrow. His face was the very image of collected superiority, as though he was in the presence of a very slow, very annoying child. The widespread of the ice in his eyes startled her.

"This isn't just about last night," she murmured.

"What isn't?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Don't even try, Erik," she growled. "Don't treat me like—like some underling!"

"You're overreacting, Christine." His voice was now edged with anger, but even that was a victory for Christine. Anger was as good an emotion as any.

"_I'm_ overreacting? Erik, you don't even have a reason to be so—uncouth!"

"Don't I?" He gave her one of his intense stares, and her mind reeled. Hurt and fury both hung in the air as he spoke.

"Lord, I'll never understand you!" She cried, turning on her heel and leaving the room. Let him sulk about whatever was bothering him this time; quite frankly, she had her own problems to worry about.

۞

**Author's Note: **A thanks goes out to Lisa A. A. for the train schedules!


	9. Flight

۞

_**Chapter Eight:**_

_Flight_

۞

Christine's tiny suitcase buckled as she shoved her dresses into its confines, wrenching them from the closet with unnecessary force. The hangers still quivered long after she had rid them of their charges.

Anisette entered the room and paused in the doorway, gaping at the flurry of fabric and brown curls that moved from one end of the room to the other. Christine muttered to herself as she stormed about the room, Anisette catching snatches of her infuriated ramblings when she passed the door.

"If he _thinks_ he can…Certainly in for…I will _not_ be…Honestly, of _all_ the _pigheaded_…"

"Um, Madame?"

"How _dare_—"

"Madame!"

Christine turned, startled. "Oh—Anisette, hello, I was just…" She looked ruefully at her chaotic suitcase. "…Packing."

"Monsieur de la Rue said you might need assistance—"

Christine's eyes narrowed. "Monsieur de la Rue said so, did he?" She purposefully pulled out her crumpled dresses and began folding them. "Well, you may tell _Monsieur de la Rue_ that I am _quite_ capable of doing it myself."

Anisette looked skeptically at the suitcase, and Christine flushed.

"He also told me to give you this," she reached out of Christine's sight for a moment, and brought in substantially larger valise made of brown leather. "He said an article bearing the Chagny crest might not be appropriate for the trip."

Embarrassed by her behaviour, Christine meekly accepted the article, heaving it next to her old suitcase, which she pushed to the side. Anisette observed her anxiously for a moment, then said, "You're sure, Madame, that you don't need…"

"I'm fine," Christine replied, brushing Anisette off with a wave and feeble smile. The maid left the room with a quick glance over her shoulder, and Christine sagged onto the bed.

Erik was infuriatingly unpredictable.

She ran a hand across the smooth leather of her new case, then unbuckled it and lifted the top.

It was already neatly packed, filled with brand-new, beautifully crafted gowns that appeared to be her size. There was also a lacy negligee and nightgown, two pairs of shoes, a little bag of cosmetics, and a velvet jewelry box. Christine gasped in astonishment and delight, awestruck at the exquisiteness of the dresses. Careful not to obstruct the orderly packing, she lifted each gown just enough so that she could get a peek of the one under it. There were seven of them in all, a collection of rich purples, blues, and forest greens, a lighter one of pale rose pink for warmer weather, two of plain wool resembling the one she was wearing, and, at the very bottom, a shocking design of brilliant crimson that Christine quickly covered back up in her modesty.

She backed up and stared at the ensemble for a moment, unsure of what to think. She knew Erik must have purchased these, remembering her size at the Opera house. And, even further, they were just the kind of things she might have chosen out herself, save the dreaded red gown. But why did he spoil her so? Had he gone out and bought them the moment she took up board at his house? Or had he planned to give them to her four years before, if she had stayed with him?

And just now, he had been appallingly rude; did he think showering her with gifts would bring her to forgive him? _It takes more than that to win my approval, Erik, _she thought with considerable offense, though secretly she knew she was touched that he had spent the time choosing the garments out for her. And, they were _extremely_ impressive. She had not dared to even glimpse inside the jewelry box.

She looked down at her own over-worn, stained dress. She certainly needed a change of clothes. And, after all, the gowns would only fit her; it wasn't as though she could return them.

Moving quickly, she slipped out of her old gown and put on one of the new wool ones, reveling in the cleanliness. The sleeves went down to her elbows, and, along with the collar and skirts, were hemmed in a loopy pattern of green thread.

She rolled up her old dress and put it in her old suitcase, then went around the room collecting her few belongings. She put the music box and the picture of her father on top of everything, then carefully closed and re-buckled Erik's gift.

Dion stood in the foyer when she emerged from the hall, half carrying half dragging her luggage. He rushed to help her with an easy smile, which she returned, muttering breathless thanks.

"You didn't expect me to let you two leave without saying goodbye?" He inquired cheerfully when she expressed her surprise at seeing him, but there was a certain strain in his voice. Christine abruptly realized there was very little chance she would ever see Dion again, and was deeply saddened by this thought. There was so much she owed him, and he was still so young; she would have loved to see him become an adult.

He helped Christine into what she assumed was one of Erik's traveling cloaks, then took her arm and led her outside, where said man was waiting with a hansom. As Dion shook his hand firmly, Christine reflected that perhaps Dion was _already_ an adult.

She trotted down the steps and came to stand next to the two men, trying discreetly to catch Erik's eye. His gaze did not avert from his house, however.

She had not thought that perhaps Erik did not want to leave the home he had built for himself in Nice, and the fond, pained expression on his face almost startled her. Christine smacked herself inwardly. Erik's life did not revolve around her any more. _He is sacrificing everything to save you—for Christ's sake, Christine, try to think of someone other than yourself once in while._

She turned back as well, to see the servants crowded at the door; Beaumont, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, Travers, grinning lopsidedly, a grey-haired man she did not recognize, who must have been the groundskeeper, looking grim, and her maid Anisette, wiggling her fingers in a wave. Christine could not help but notice that she glanced frequently at Dion, blushing prettily. The man in question had just stowed their baggage in the back of the buggy, and now came to stand before her.

"It has been an honour, Madame." He took her hand and kissed it warmly, making her smile in spite of the tears in her eyes.

"_Au revoir, _Dion; and thank you, for everything."

"_A bientôt_," he corrected her, and then turned to Erik. The two men regarded each other seriously for a moment, and Erik looked as though he was about to speak when Dion threw his arms around the older man.

Christine stifled a laugh behind her hand, as Erik looked horrified.

"And _a bientôt_ to you, dear teacher!" Dion cried passionately, patting Erik on the back several times before pulling away, not seeming to care that his mentor had remained stiff as a board the entire time. "May our paths cross again in the near future."

"Yes, quite," Erik replied awkwardly. "Farewell, Dion." He looked at Christine for the first time since she had come outside, his countenance blank. "Shall we go?" Without waiting for an answer, he jumped lithely up to the front of the carriage.

Dion helped her inside, and she sat down with a thump. The door shut with a click, and Christine heard the crack of a whip as the vehicle lurched into motion. She pulled back the small curtains and watched Rue Manor shrink as they traveled steadily farther from the property.

_A bientôt, my beloved France. Au revoir, Christine de Chagny._

۞

Christine leaned her head against the window as the French countryside sped past them. The ride to the Nice Station had taken no time at all, and, despite Christine's unfounded fears, they had boarded without a problem; people did not even pause to stare curiously at Erik's mask in their rush.

Though she had been a little taken aback when Erik had pulled her to a stop in the middle of the bustling crowds and muttered, "Your name is Madame Christine _de la Rue_; we are a newly married couple on our honeymoon to England. Do not speak to anyone, do not venture out of my sight, and do _not_, under _any_ circumstances, make yourself noticeable."

She had been torn between laughter and dismay at the unnecessary discomfort Erik had created by making them a married couple, but, unsettled by the obvious anxiety in his voice and the constant shoving of the people around her, had nodded without protest.

After they had embarked, Erik had silently led Christine to an empty compartment near the back of the train. He put away their luggage, and sat down across from her. Christine, finally able to take a proper breath, waited on edge for him to say something. When they lapsed into silence, Erik obviously still sore from their fight earlier, she had given up with a weary sigh and taken to staring out the window.

It seemed as though they had been traveling long enough to have been to Brest and back several times. Christine felt as though she would go insane in the silence. Erik had closed his eyes almost immediately as the train started up, but she could not be sure if he was asleep. She did not think he would drop his guard so easily on public transportation, especially when their situation was so perilous. She had faded in and out of slumber herself, but nerves would not let her drift off completely.

No, he was almost definitely pretending. _To avoid speaking with me, _Christine thought bitterly.

_It's not as though you're making an effort to start a conversation either._

"Erik?" She said tentatively, swallowing. His eyes snapped open almost instantly.

_I knew it._

"Is there a problem, Christine?"

The temper she seemed to develop around him now flared at the icy timbre of his voice, but the last thing she wanted was another fight. "Oh…I just wondered…if you were sleeping." She blushed, knowing quite well how false she sounded.

Erik stared hard at her for a moment, then started to close his eyes again.

"Actually—"

His sapphire eyes now blazed as he watched her expectantly.

"I wanted to apologize for this morning—I shouldn't have been rude." She paused, and then added quickly, "But you weren't very polite either."

He acknowledged her apology with a nod. "If that is all…?"

Her jaw clenched. "I had hoped you would apologize as well."

His lips formed a thin line, and he did not reply. It was too much for Christine to bear.

"_God damn it, Erik!_" She got to her feet, fists clenched. "I am not _lying_ to you! I don't know what goes on in that _bloody_ head of yours, to make you think—I won't stand for it, being treated like I'm your cowardly little student!" His eyes widened in shock as she continued, her voice shrill. "There is no denying that I don't have the experience that you do; that I don't know what it feels like, to be in your position—but you won't even let me attempt to understand! You're too busy pitying yourself and blocking me out that you don't seem to notice I'm trying to care for you!What is so attractive about the idea of eternal misery to you, that makes you refuse to believe that I _want_ to love you?Why, I do love you—why do you _put me through this_?"

With a dismal groan, she flung the door open and stormed out of the compartment.

۞

Erik's heart had leapt from his chest; he was sure of it. Somewhere in the midst of Christine's shouting, its beating had reached such a violent climax that it burst through the flesh and sinew entirely, leaving him with an incredibly weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He stared at the space where Christine had occupied not a moment ago. He could not say what surprised him more, the fact that she had cursed, or the fact that she had yelled at him. Christine Daaé had not possessed such violent traits.

_And she did not try to seduce you during walks along the beach._

"_God damn it, Erik!"_

_She does not know the horrors of your past—don't fool yourself._

"_What is so attractive about the idea of eternal misery to you…?"_

_She could never understand the complications of murder, of death…_

"…_My child, Erik! Dead!"_

_Don't…_

"…_I do love you!"_

Barely five seconds passed before Erik tore after her.

۞

Christine shrieked as Erik grabbed her arm and whirled her around, shoving her against his chest and carrying her back to the compartment. She squirmed, pounding her small fists helplessly against his chest.

"_What did I say about making yourself noticeable?_" He whispered hoarsely, putting her back on her feet and closing the door.

All thoughts in her head vanished at his words, and she paled in fear. "Oh_ no_, you don't think they—"

The fear was replaced with something considerably more pleasant when he pulled her to him, tenderly this time, and kissed her. Christine froze for a split second, then molded into his arms, curling her arms up around his shoulders. He cupped her cheek with one hand and ran his fingers lightly down her spine with the other, grinning as she shuddered against him.

The kiss was sweeter, lacking the stormy lust of the past several days; it reminded Christine more of their _first_ kiss: gentle, exploring, moving slowly to relish each sensation within itself, as though they had all the time in the world.

When at last they pulled apart, Christine looked up at Erik in wonder. "Apology accepted," she said breathlessly, and Erik burst into laughter, snaking his arms around her waist and embracing her. She had never heard him laugh before, and the rich, resonant sound delighted her to no end. She leaned against his chest contentedly, inhaling deeply. He smelt of candles, and something unidentifiable that made Christine think of the sea.

After a moment, he sobered. "I _am_ sorry, Christine," he murmured into her hair.

"Then, you must promise never to keep your doubts from me again," she told him, fingering his right lapel.

"You have my word."

She glanced up, smiling warmly. "Then I promise never to lie to you." She brushed a kiss to his lips, and then said, "And I will try my best to be understanding when you tell me about your past."

His countenance contorted in worry. "You would not want to hear it, Christine—I have attempted to redeem myself, but I fear it shall never be done…I was a madman—a monster."

"Don't say such things." She stroked his cheek. "You were born good, Erik—the world made you who—" She broke off as she yawned suddenly, quickly drawing her hand away from his face to cover her mouth.

"Are you tired?" He asked, concerned.

"I slept fitfully last night," she replied. "It is nothing."

His brow furrowed, then, she squeaked as he scooped her up in his arms and sat down, laying her across his lap. One arm held her around the waist so she would not slip off.

"What if someone walks in on us?" She murmured, snuggling against him.

"We're on our honeymoon," he replied, in mock seriousness. "Ridiculous, lovesick behaviour is to be _expected_."

She laughed quietly, planting feather-light kisses along his jaw. "Wake me if you have any doubts." Then, with a flutter of eyelashes, she was lost in dreams.

۞

Erik's eyes snapped open, and he looked down in disbelief.

Christine—was on his lap.

Christine.

_Christine_.

More prominently, Christine was on his lap, _squirming_.

He could have spent hours, simply watching her sleep, trying to give a name to each singular beauty about her. He could examine the unfamiliar sensations of love, joy, freedom, and acceptance—feelings he had not felt in years. When he had been her tutor, he had tried to imagine the utter bliss that he would live in if Christine ever dared share his sentiments. Now, he knew one needed to experience it to truly grasp the ecstasy, the wonderment that seemed to fill every pore in his body. He would have to watch that he didn't do something irrational—his newfound glory in that one moment was so powerful that he could snatch the mask from his face and stand before the world, uncaring—

Because Christine had chosen _him_.

Yes, he most definitely could have spent hours—_could_ being the operative word. Her nonstop wriggling was eliciting a reaction out of him that would soon grow too obvious.

"Christine," he said, his voice teetering dangerously on the edge of a whimper. She only mumbled something indistinctive and moved around even more. Erik hissed sharply. _Damnation, she'll forgive you if you wake her up._ Hastily, in fear of her moving again, Erik lifted her and adjusted her into a sitting position.

She blinked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. He could have kissed her when she took in his presence with a shy smile. "Good—" she glanced over at the darkened window, "—evening. Have we arrived?"

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his watch. "It's nearing half past nine now, we should be there in twenty minutes or so."

"I slept for that long?" She said in surprise. "Weren't you bored in the least?"

Oddly embarrassed that he had slept as well, he simply replied, "No."

She gave him a small knowing grin, and leaned forward to capture his lips with her own. Erik tightened his hold on her and they stayed that way until the train screeched to a halt at Brest Station.

۞

The harbour town of Brest was cramped and grubby, a bit of a shock to Christine who had only ever seen the most pleasant parts of France. It was as though someone had spilt some foul substance on a map of the country, and the stain had formed a city. The streets were teeming with burly, snarling sailors, either setting off or arriving from a voyage. Instead of the comforting breeze that the sea supplied in Nice, there was only a nauseating stench of dead fish. Even the yellow light pooling around the street lamps seemed harsh and repulsive, as it only revealed the filth and grime that coated the cobblestones.

Christine thanked God that Erik was beside her. He gently pulled her away from the window of the hansom, and she leaned against him gratefully. "It is best that you are not seen," he murmured. "Women of your…quality…do not habit the city of Brest often."

"We are leaving first thing in the morning, are we not?" Christine asked him earnestly.

"I have made the arrangements." Of course he had. She assumed that Erik had been here before, as he seemed to know exactly where he was going. The hansom had even been waiting for them at the station, and the cabbie had greeted Erik with familiarity. He was a stocky gentleman, with the weathered face of a sailor. He looked just like every other man in the city, save his generally clean clothes and the lack of facial hair. He also seemed to know exactly where Erik wanted to go, because they had not spoken a word except for a muttered 'good evening'.

"Is it—Where we are staying, is it…"

"It is decent, Christine, if that is what you're worried about." He did not look at her as he added, "Perhaps not what a _Comtesse_ would be accustomed to, but it is the best place available."

She sat on his right side, so the mask hid his expression. Bringing up a hand, she turned his head in her direction. "I am not a Comtesse," she told him firmly. "_Never_ think that what you can provide is not good enough for me."

The inn was in fact surprisingly respectable. It was tucked away in between two buildings, a swinging wooden sign, with the name of the establishment carved into it, jutting out onto the street to attract guests. Christine read it as Erik bundled her inside: _La Petite Sirène_.

As soon as one came in the door, there was a set of stairs and a narrow hall leading off into the tavern. Erik thanked the cabbie driver, who had followed them inside, and handed him a small change purse. The man accepted the payment with a toothy grin, and, taking their baggage in both hands, led them up the stairs. Christine kept her gaze downcast, clinging tightly to Erik's arm.

"Nicest room in the house," the man said in a gravely voice, as he unlocked a door at the end of the hall. "Brilliant view of the harbour." She and Erik stepped inside, and with an automatic "Enjoy your stay", the man was gone.

Erik moved from her side, and she saw a flicker, then the oil lamp came to life and the room lit up.

It was long and narrow, with fading maroon wallpaper. The furniture, a large bed, desk, and dresser, were all made of cherry. The window at the end of the room did indeed look out onto the harbour, but the crowded docks were not Christine's idea of a brilliant view. There was a closet to one side of her, and a door that connected to a small bathroom on the other. Inside, she was relieved to see a toilet, tub, and sink, all equipped with indoor plumbing. She eyed the bath longingly. When was the last time she had washed herself thoroughly? And now, after traveling for so long…She shuddered.

"Erik?" She glanced back at him to realize he had stopped moving and had been watching her apprehensively. She gave him a fatigued smile and said reassuringly, "It's fine. I'd like to take a bath, if I could…"

"Of course," he replied, visibly relaxing. He stepped forward and assisted her out of her cloak, hanging it up in the closet. While he did so, she opened her suitcase and extracted the negligee, nightdress, and bag of cosmetics She paused at the door of the bathroom, when he spoke again. "I'll leave the room for a short while, to buy us some supper. You should be perfectly safe on your own for a time."

"I trust you," she said lightly, but gave him a meaningful look. He nodded, and she closed the door.

It took a little time for the taps to finally start spouting warm water, so she stripped down to her corset and shift, and examined herself in the mirror. Her eyes still looked weary after her sleep on the train, and her hair was mussed from leaning against Erik the entire time. She took out a brush and eased it through her tangled curls, feeling ashamed when she found herself yearning for a maid. While she traveled, she would have to get used to not living to extravagantly as she had for the past few years. Things would improve when they reached England, and she had lived the majority of her life without servants. She could manage.

The tub finally filled, and Christine stared at it balefully, realizing she couldn't remove her corset to get in.

۞

Erik looked up as the door to the bathroom opened. He had brought in another chair and set up the desk as a table, so he and Christine could eat when she was finished.

But she couldn't have gone that quickly?

"Erik—" She leaned out of the doorway, and he inhaled sharply as he saw she was only wearing her shift and corset. "I don't have a maid—would you…?" She gestured to her corset, blushing.

He came over without a word, and she turned her back to him, pulling her hair away compliantly. The laces were relatively easy, but ignoring her bare skin wasn't. He moved slowly, his hands lingering after he undid each tie, speculating over what she might do if he scooped her up and carried her over to the bed. He wondered if she had thought about the fact that there was only _one_ place for both of them to sleep.

"Are you having trouble?" Her quiet voice broke into his fantasies, which had made him stop his work. "Eri—?" She broke off with a gasp when he leaned down and kissed her neck. He leisurely started on the laces again, kissing her each time he finished one, moving from her neck down to her shoulder, and then up to her ear. She was so delicate, so sweet…he could drown in her taste.

When the corset finally went totally slack, Christine turned and took both of Erik's hands in her own, kissing him softly. "The water is going to get cold," she murmured, and, with a teasing smile, disappeared back into the bathroom.

۞

Christine leaned against the door and took several deep breaths. She felt like she couldn't control herself when Erik touched her—it was similar to the sensation of him singing to her, only increased tenfold. She was utterly consumed and enchanted by him, every movement reflexive and done without thought. Some subconscious part of her mind took over, and she obeyed completely. Why question things, when she knew her Angel would protect her from all harm?

The warmth of the bath was bliss, and she lost track of time letting her sore body relax, as layers of sweat and dirt lifted from her skin. She scrubbed her cheeks pink, using a bottle of lavender scented oil from her cosmetics case to rid herself of Brest's revolting smell that seemed to cling to everything it touched.

She emerged from the water feeling rejuvenated, and slipped into the robe and nightgown Erik had provided, unable to ignore that it looked suspiciously similar to the one she had worn when he had first revealed himself to her at the Opera House—perhaps a little more modest, but similar nonetheless. Had he bought it for that reason?

The thought of Erik purchasing women's undergarments brought an amused chuckle to her lips, and she put the matter aside.

He was sitting at the desk when she came out, intently reading. He had changed into another of his loose white shirts and a pair of black lounging trousers. When she caught sight of the little platter of food on the desk, however, the flutter changed to result of a very different feeling.

When had she last eaten?

Erik glanced up, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile. "Hungry?"

"Very," she replied, sitting opposite him and plucking an apple slice from the platter. There were also slices of cheese, ham, olives, and grapes. Erik insisted he had already eaten as much as he needed, so she helped herself until the plate was almost empty. Deciding she was full, she looked up from her meal to see that he had been watching her the entire time, his expression somewhere between highly amused and astonished.

"I would have brought up more food if I had known you were _that_ famished."

She blushed, then rested a hand on her stomach and grimaced. "I shan't need breakfast, now, at least." Erik promptly burst into laughter, and she smiled embarrassedly, though inside she was rejoicing at his carefree mirth.

There was a short silence as she hid a yawn behind her hand, and they both simultaneously looked at the _one_ bed.

The pleasures of the marriage bed were no mystery to Christine. True, she and Raoul had shared separate rooms for the greater part of their marriage, but during the first year they had been very much in love. Since the death of her child, she had not thought about any such acts, however, until she had spent her first night in Rue Manor. Somehow, she didn't think that any of the gentle, inexperienced nights she had spent with Raoul would be of much worth with Erik. They were different men entirely, and it would take an equally different approach to please her intense, fiery companion. Which, she reflected, thinking back to before her bath, would not be difficult at all.

_But it is too early; even Erik must know that._

Hoping her countenance had not betrayed her thoughts, she looked across the desk at him. His brow was furrowed—he looked resigned. Christine knew immediately what he would say.

"I will sleep in the room next door, Christine; it is no trouble." He got to his feet and reached for his suitcase.

"Are you not even going to ask me my opinion?" Christine said softly, sadly, watching him with wide eyes.

"Pardon?" Erik froze at her voice, as though it had reached out and took hold of him.

She stood, cocking her head, and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Do you really think so little of me?"

"I—"

"You tend to be melodramatic, Erik," she murmured, as the hand slid down his arm and their fingers entwined. Stepping in front of him, she took hold of the mask and removed it, unfazed.

He had watched her every movement, his eyes fearful and alert. When she took off his mask, he reflexively moved to cover his face with a hand, but she grabbed his arm and pulled it away.

"Especially—" she paused, and kissed his ravaged right cheek. "—About that."

"Christine…"

"You know it doesn't matter to me. I do not love your voice alone, Erik…I love _all of you_."

He pulled her to him, giving her a searing kiss, his arms pushing her against him so forcibly Christine felt as though their bodies would fuse together. It wasn't until she felt his hand at the ties of her negligee that she finally realized what she was doing.

His hand stopped as soon as he felt her stiffen against him, and he turned his head so their lips separated, but she didn't let him step away. Holding his shirt tightly in her fists, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Erik…It is too early—please, I only ask for time…"

He let out a ragged sigh and nodded. "Lord, whatever you ask of me, Christine—whatever you ask, I will give it."

"Then stay with me, tonight. Don't leave—I couldn't bear it."

"And how am I to bear lying next to you the entire night?" He asked, but his tone was warm again. He put out the lamp, and pulled Christine into the bed. She huddled against him, and felt him hesitate for a moment, and then draw her more closely into his embrace. "Christine—my mask, is it…?"

"I put it on the bedside table," she murmured. "Please don't put it on. At least wait until morning."

"I won't," he replied, sounding a little unsure.

"Don't worry." She gave him a chaste kiss and smiled. "The Angel of Music has you under her wing."

He chuckled, and she could feel his chest vibrate against her. "I'm not sure if I should be at ease or worried all the more for it."

"Sleep, then."

"Goodnight, Christine."

"I love you." Her tone was hushed, as though she was not sure if she should say such words.

Erik's reply was a startled intake of breath that tickled the back of her ear. "I—"

To her surprise, she did not need his words. "Goodnight," she murmured understandingly, interrupting him, and at once he relaxed.

But later, just as sleep was beginning to carry her off, she swore she heard a voice in her ear, tears mingled with singing…

"Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime…" 

۞


	10. Exhilaration

**Author's Note: **I have to apologize for not replying to any of my reviews for the last two chapters. What with school starting again and a few other personal things taking up my time, I haven't got a chance to even sit down and read some of them. The ones I have were appreciated to the extreme, however, and I want to assure you that all feedback is fawned over excessively. A _huge_ thank you to all of you for taking the time to read and review. And also, please note that the story is now rated **M**.

۞

_**Chapter Nine:**_

_Exhilaration_

۞

After the scarring experience that was Brest, Christine had been quick to condemn all harbour towns as vile, filthy places. She had been dreading spending the evening in Plymouth, the seaside town in England that they were docking in.

She could see as she stepped off the steamer and onto the newly bricked streets that she had been gravely mistaken.

Even in the shadows of dusk, it was obvious that the city was considerably cleaner than Brest. The sidewalks were swept, and the few people roaming the streets that evening were not at all similar to the thugs that inhabited Brest. She could see evidence of construction not too far down the road, explaining why everything looked freshly painted and modern. Plymouth seemed to be undergoing a complete renovation. And, Christine observed with relief, the smell of fish was far less prominent than the city she had just left.

England, she had to admit, was far better than the French gave it credit for. If only she could speak the language. Erik had supplied her with a translating dictionary during the trip across the English Channel, and she had surprised him with her progress in the language. She decided not to mention that she and her father had spent just over a year in England when she was younger, wanting to impress him. She only had a child's vocabulary, but it was enough to get by.

"Erik? What's going on? Why is there no hansom?" She inquired in her mother tongue.

"Be patient, Christine," he replied enigmatically, with a faint lopsided grin. "We're out of France, there is nothing to be afraid of."

She blushed a little, realizing she had taken to glancing over her shoulder frequently, watching for some suspicious-looking man to charge at Erik with a pistol in hand. She had not quite accepted the new freedom that came with a new country, having been dwelling too much on the things she would miss about France. The full significance of her actions had still not quite hit her.

A pair of hands on her shoulders interrupted her thoughts. She turned into Erik's embrace instinctively, the top of her head barely brushing his chin. "Tired?" He asked, his lips against her forehead.

"Thoroughly exhausted," she replied, giving off a sighing laugh.

"Tomorrow shall be our last day of travel, and then you may sleep to your heart's content."

"Where are we going?"

"I own a small manor, in the countryside. It has been out of use for many years now, but it should suit you after it has been cleaned up…" He released her, tilting her chin up so she looked him in the eye. "I offer it to you, as your new home."

"Our new home," she corrected him, smiling. When he did not return the look, she faltered a little. "Erik…?"

His brow creased. "I do not want you to make decisions that you would later regret, Christine. I will look after all the finances, the help—everything you need. You no longer _need_ my protection."

"You can't be serious," she blurted out, pulling her hands out of his. "You really cannot think that all I _need_ from you is protection, Erik! Not after—" Her voice failed as she choked on her anger.

"Christine," Erik said sharply, reminding her suddenly that he had once been her tutor. "You have only been days divorced, and already you want to vault yourself into another relationship. Don't think this isn't what I want—" He kissed her penetratingly to prove himself, then continued, "—but I will _not_ take advantage of you so unsettled and distressed."

"I would not mind," she informed him wryly, her irritation dissipating rapidly.

He gave her an amused look. "I don't doubt it."

۞

Christine had never been a deep sleeper—the slightest giggle from one of the _corps_ girls would awake her when she resided in the Opera house. Now that she had much more to fear than a mistake during rehearsals, her slumber was even less thorough, and her dreams more vivid.

A knock on the door would have regularly sent her leaping from the mattress.

Tonight, however, the comforting affects of Erik's presence next to her had slowed her wits. She rose her head blearily from the pillow, not quite sure if she had heard correctly. She squinted into the darkness, trying to make out any shape. Her hand stretched out to the space next to her—it was empty.

"Erik?" She whispered frantically, sitting up, stiff as a board. The only response was a hurried 'hush', and a slight rustling near the door. She sealed her lips obediently, though her heart was racing and her head was commanding her to scream.

Then the door swung open, and Erik's silhouette was outlined in the light of the hotel hallway. She heard him curse faintly, then step aside and pull a much smaller figure into the room. The door shut, and Christine was once again lost in shadow.

"If you would light the lamp, Christine," Erik's voice said gruffly. She pulled the covers up to her chin and reached across the bed to do so.

Erik stood near the door, his hair disheveled and his upper half bare. His mask and a scowl were firmly in place. Held in one hand, by the collar of his shirt, was a boy who looked to be around nine or ten. The boy consisted of a mop of black curls and bright blue eyes, regarding Christine with innocent curiosity. His clothes were worn and dirty, and Christine realized he must live on the streets.

"Introduce yourself," Erik ordered the boy, shoving him forward. The boy trotted over to where Christine lay obediently, wiping his hand on his trouser leg. He then offered it to her, with an unabashed smile.

"Seth Emerson, _madermoselle_."

Christine shook the filthy palm with a soft chuckle at his attempted French, smiling in return. The boy's vivacious nature was highly contagious, albeit she didn't know anything about him but his name. "Christine—" she paused, glancing at Erik, "_de la Rue_."

He said something in English, eyeing her slyly. He spoke too quickly and used slang that she didn't understand, so she turned to Erik for a translation. His forbidding glower was explanation enough.

"Who is he?"

"He lives in a shelter with his mother, and I discovered him _roaming_ the alleyways many years ago…" Erik smirked, "…in search of _adventure_, as he put it. I employ him as my—valet, shall we say—when I am in England."

Christine stared at the unkempt boy, trying—and failing—to picture him helping Erik into one of his sartorially faultless suits. "But why is he here in the middle of the night?"

"Because he is a foolish little boy, who is intent on destroying what is left of my sanity." With a wordless snarl, Erik hoisted the lad, who had been listening to them speak with interest, up by his collar yet again, and carried him back to the door. Seth muttered something Christine didn't hear that made Erik's lips twitch, and the scowl lifted a little.

Seth did not struggle; rather, he looked as though he was having the time of his life. Erik deposited him outside in the hall, and murmured in English, "Outside the hotel, tomorrow morning—early as six o'clock, if possible. I want to leave the harbour."

"Aye, sir." With a mock salute, Seth disappeared, and Erik shut the door with what Christine could've sworn was a _relieved_ sigh. She had expected him to be horrible with children, but he had handled Seth quite well—as well as one could handle a little boy who burst in on you in the middle of the night. If Christine was not mistaken, Erik was almost fond of the child.

She put out the lamp as Erik slipped back into bed, smiling when she felt a hand slide over her middle. She moved onto her other side and tried to kiss him on the cheek, but her lips touched cold leather. "Darling, your mask…"

When he did not move, she tried again. "Really, Erik, I prefer you without it."

"No, it isn't that," he murmured. "You called me…"

She blushed, and waited for him to tease her for it, then realized he couldn't see her face. "I'm sorry—'darling' doesn't quite suit you, does it?"

"It merely surprised me," he said softly. Then, in a more mocking tone, "I do not mind it."

Some time later she realized he had avoided removing the mask in the end.

۞

_I shall avoid any method of traveling for the rest of my life, _Christine vowed silently, shifting her sore nether limbs in her seat, as the English countryside moved in swift, jerking motion before her eyes. The sky was overcast, the sun a blaring white light reflecting off the clouds. Christine squinted as she gazed out onto the rolling hills, seeming to go on endlessly. Patches of trees were scattered across the immaculate green, their leaves trembling in the slight wind.

Spots of gray in the distance represented the odd rock formations Erik had told her inhabited Dartmoor; it gave the otherwise ordinary panorama an eerie veil. The shapes of the massive stones seemed unnatural. They refused to correspond with the landscape—rather like blood on white sheets, Christine thought, then shuddered at her own grotesqueness.

Erik's residence was just outside Dartmoor, in reality. It was the area famous for the rock formations, but they stretched beyond it quite a ways. Fortunately, its treacherous marshes did _not_.

In any case, Christine reflected, the peculiar scenery suited Erik much more than the pristine, honeyed France. She noticed that he seemed more at ease here—though it was in all probability because there was no longer a risk of being found by the Commune.

She had heard many stories about the horrors of Dartmoor: people losing their way, drowning in the swamps, disappearing…But now that she could see it for herself, she thought it strangely beautiful. _Again_, _Rather like Erik._

Leaning back in her seat, Christine smiled faintly as she heard a gleeful laugh from the front of the carriage. Erik had allowed Seth to sit in the driver's seat with him half way through the trip, saving Christine from the boy's constant questions and chatter. It appeared that he was enjoying himself; Christine prayed fervently that Erik had not allowed him to take the reins.

They had been traveling for an hour or so when the horses were pulled to a stop, and the carriage door opened. Christine took Erik's gloved hand and stepped out. What she saw took her breath away.

She suspected he had designed the property himself. The clean manila bricks contrasted brightly against the wispy jade-coloured vines of the willows that shrouded the house from direct view. A towering marble fountain was positioned in the center of a cul-de-sac that circled in front of the entrance, void of water. The angelic figures that decorated it peered at her, unmoving. She peered back. The place seemed like something out of a fairytale, an abandoned castle awaiting its princess.

She squeezed Erik's hand, struggling for words.

"Is it satisfactory, then?" He asked with practiced stoicalness.

"_Satisfactory_? Erik, it's…" She opened and closed her mouth several times. "It's_ wonderful!_ How could you stay in France when you have such a home here?"

"I have never spent an evening here," he told her, raising his eyebrows. "It was a design—This is more one of my compositions than a house."

"It is certainly as beautiful," she murmured.

"It is too _womanly_, for me," Seth stated pompously. Christine had forgotten he was there, and she looked down at the little form in both annoyance and amusement. Erik appeared unfazed.

The inside of the house was as charming as the exterior, which was no surprise to Christine. Every commodity and necessity she could think of was supplied in top quality. She felt she had underestimated Erik still; his fortune was far vaster than she had imagined. She felt horribly spoiled, but wouldn't dare refuse him when he had done so much for her.

She was introduced to the housekeeper, Mrs. Attwater, who was the opposite Christine's mental image of what an old English woman should be. Edith Attwater would be a threatening figure if she had not had the rosy cheeks and motherly smile that graced her bold features. She towered over Christine, her stocky limbs seizing the girl in an exuberant embrace. Her orange hair was streaked with gray, and her brown eyes glittered youthfully. She greeted Seth with enthusiasm, which he returned, so Christine assumed Seth had stayed here before.

"I'm afraid the house is rather a mess, if only I had known of your coming…" She gave Erik an indignant look. He regarded her unsurely, and Christine contemplated that perhaps Erik did not quite know how to handle old women—especially specimen of such healthy size.

She had to think very hard to understand the woman's speedy, heavily accented English, even though she had studied quite a bit during the journey. Stumbling over a thank you, she let Erik fill the woman in on the situation. From Edith's gasps and worried glances in her direction, Christine guessed that he was leaving nothing out. He obviously trusted the woman, even though they did not seem to be entirely that close.

Edith (as she insisted Christine call her) showed her to her rooms, a set of chambers overlooking the grounds and forest beyond the house. The bedroom itself was exquisitely decorated, all lush greens and soft cream colours. The en-suite gleamed with newness. Christine openly admired it all, awed at Erik's taste.

"Dinner is at six, just so you know. I'll send your suitcases along, dear, if that's all you'll be needing."

"Yes, thank you."

۞

The dining room was awash in warm candlelight, its high ceilings encompassed in shadow. Erik and Seth were already seated when Christine entered, dressed in a violet gown Erik had given her. She smiled at him as she sat down, and one corner of his mouth turned up in response.

Seth, face and hands freshly scrubbed, watched her impatiently.

"May we eat now?" He asked, fork in hand.

"Of course," Erik replied, signaling for the food to be brought in. "Your mother will worry if there is no word of you for so long."

"Is Seth not staying?"

Erik glanced at her. "I mentioned yesterday I would not be living in the house with you. I would not want to invade your privacy; besides, I must get back to Plymouth, to tell his mother where he will be for the next short while."

Christine stiffened. Her face had fallen immediately, but she swiftly composed herself. "I see," she said stonily, eyes on her plate. She had not forgotten what Erik had said, but she had hoped she had convinced him not to. She didn't know what to do with herself, in such a large house, with only Seth for company. She hadn't thought about it.

…In fact, she hadn't thought about her future at all. Was she going to spend the rest of her days cowering in Erik's manor, with nothing to do but sew and mope around the grounds? When would she be allowed to go out in public, make friends like any normal person?

The duration of supper was a strained affair. Even Seth's innocent blue eyes interpreted the peculiar coldness in Christine's manner towards Erik. There was little conversation. They finished the meal in complete silence.

Then, Christine stood abruptly. "I think I shall retire," she said curtly. "Thank you for a lovely dinner." She nodded to Seth, and to Edith at the doorway to the kitchen, then marched out of the room without looking at Erik.

Unfortunately, she had not memorized the location of her room. Quite lost, she decided to sit down in the library she had found and read to calm her nerves. She grimaced when she realized what she had chosen: _Roderick and Rosalba_, a gothic romance.

Easing into a chair, her eyes scanned the pages without actually reading; her mind was in too much turmoil to concentrate.

It did not take much time for Erik to find her. After ten minutes or so, the door opened and he stepped inside. Christine put down her book, but did not stand. She stared at him, expressionless.

"You did not have to be so brusque during dinner, Christine," he said reproachfully.

"Don't speak to me as though I am still your student," she snapped, eyes flashing. Erik was easily riled, and she felt the acute need to shout at someone.

"Stop acting like a _child_, then," he retorted, eyes narrowing. "Forgive me if I have offended you in some way—I hardly think allowing you privacy is an offence."

"There is a difference between privacy and _isolation_! I did not ask for you to leave, Erik—one would think you did not want to stay."

"You are not isolated; feel _free_ to go to town as often as you like. You have plenty of company in the house as it is." He had taken several steps toward her, and she got to her feet defensively.

"Oh yes," she spat, "Spending my days with a child like Seth should be particularly enjoyable."

"He acts more mature than _you_, perhaps you could _learn_ something from him." Erik's words came through gritted teeth.

"…And, go to town as often as I like? Hardly knowing the language, without a guide—be _realistic_, Erik. _Mon dieu_, if I had known you were planning to callously abandon me I would never have agreed to coming here _in the first place!_"

"Giving up an entire _household_ to you, free of charge, could hardly be considered _callous abandonment_, Madame!"

"Is it I, then, Erik? Have my maddening requests _driven you to this?_"

"You are, by far, the most _grueling_—"

"_What would you have me do? _Wait around for you to visit me, revolving my entire life around your schedule, what _you_ feel like doing?"

He took her by the shoulders in a bruising grip, and a spark of fear went off in her gut, but she glared at him defiantly. "_Ungrateful_, _stubborn_, _conceited_—"

"_Lying wretch!_" Christine exclaimed shrilly, striking him across the face. His mask fell from his face and skidded across the wood floor.

He released her instantly, his eyes blazing with white-hot fury. The deformed side of his face was twisted even more dramatically as he glowered at her.

Her countenance was wiped clean in shock and terror, not at his face, but the barely contained rage she could see plainly, stiffening his limbs, radiating in deafening waves.

He, of course, misinterpreted it. "Goodbye, Christine," he said hoarsely. In one fluid motion, he retrieved his mask and stepped out the door, slamming it behind him.

"Wait!" Christine cried, her hand, about to reach out, flinching back at the noise. "_Erik_—" She emitted something between a sob and a scream, and buried her face in her hands. Her knees buckled, and she sunk to the floor, leaning against the divan for support. "God, God, _God_…" She repeated fervently, squeezing the upholstery so hard her knuckles turned white.

_What had she done?_

_Now you will be fortunate if he ever returns at all, _she thought savagely.

Each minute seemed hours long as she sat there, her mind in a bleak state of vegetation, as the light in the windows faded to black and the candlewicks sunk low in their wax.

"_Christine_?"

She raised her tearstained face tiredly at the sound of her name.

"Dear me, what are you doing down there?" Edith ambled over and helped her to her feet with a sympathetic cluck. "No use moping, young lady," she said matter-of-factly, brushing off Christine's skirts. "Tears won't help your case with M. de la Rue."

"Did you hear…?" Christine asked meekly.

"When lovers quarrel, the world hears." She placed Christine's hand on her arm and led her briskly out of the room towards the stairs, and, Christine assumed, headed for her room.

The brunette blanched. "_Lovers_—Mrs. Attwater—Edith, Erik and I are certainly…we are not…"

"I may be old, dear," Edith stated, her tone amused, "But I am not _senile_."

Christine slumped, surrendering, against the woman's solid form. "I only wish I knew how you manage to handle him so well."

Edith chuckled. "I see him as a rather stubborn child, at my age. I have had much experience with stubborn children, Christine. Arguing is a healthy activity for a couple, especially with Erik's temper. I would not worry too much about him, he'll come around." Her wise, comforting words allowed Christine to relax a little, and by the time she reached her chambers, she was quite ready to sleep.

"Thank you, very much, Edith," she murmured, only just stopping herself from rubbing her eyes.

"Do you require assistance?" The woman asked, watching as Christine began unpinning her hair.

"I'll manage," she replied with a small smile.

"Goodnight then, my dear."

"Just a moment—I was wondering…"

"Yes?"

Christine paused thoughtfully. "How…how much do you know, Edith—about Erik—about his past?"

Edith raised her eyebrows enigmatically. "I think you'd be surprised, my dear." With a nod, she stepped out, and the door shut silently behind her.

Christine, feeling significantly that there was something she did not know about Erik and Edith, set about preparing herself for bed. Out her window, she could see the long stretch of treetops, turned a silvery green in the moonlight, murky as it peeked through the clouds.

With a quiet sigh, she slipped beneath the covers, and waded into a stream of fitful slumber.

۞

With a grimace, Erik tossed the small bottle he was holding onto the road. At the first hesitant taste of the sweet, burning liquid within it he had been repulsed—his period of using intoxication as an escape had passed years ago. Getting drunk now wouldn't do him any good; in fact, it would most likely contribute to a serious injury, as he was on horseback.

He absently patted the animal below him, who was panting with effort as he urged it on. Its sleek auburn coat gleamed in the light of the moon, the same moon that lit his way. There was, as he had expected and as always, no one else traveling at that time of night. It must be nearing twelve o'clock, for he had left Plymouth just after the eleventh hour and had been riding for quite a while.

He imagined he looked quite a spectacle: black cape billowing out behind him as he leaned forward in full gallop, his mask set in a permanent glare and matching the exposed side of his countenance. His breath became mist before him, along with the breath of the horse, curling around their heads like ghostly collars.

He didn't quite know what initially had driven him to return to the house—or rather, there were too many things for him to make sense of. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to say tell Christine he would leave, he needed…he needed to simply see that she was all right. He could barely remember what their argument had originally been about; the only image in his mind was the look of terrified alarm on Christine's face when he mask fell from his face.

He needed to know that all the trust and devotion he had built up in the past week hadn't been for nothing—he needed to hear from her lips that she hadn't lied, that his face did not frighten her…He had to hear that she loved him, even if it was the last thing she told him before she ordered him to remove himself from her life.

There was no one else but Christine who could reach him—not a soul on the earth. He could leave, if he only knew he had one person who was not afraid to enter his shadows and fight his demons, simply to find him. He could go on if he knew _that_.

No one but her, heard as the outcast hears… 

The windows were dark when he halted in front of the entrance, which comforted him. He had always been more at ease when he could not be seen.

He knew which room she was in; he had constructed it solely for her—the whole house, had been his ideal residence for their family, that he had designed while still underneath the Opera house, when he had believed they would one day marry. He dared not tell her, but was immensely pleased when she had been so taken with it.

He crept down the hall, completely silent, his chest rising and falling erratically. He did not know what to say, but he trusted the words would come to him when he saw her.

But his hand froze on the door handle.

He could not bring himself to intrude on her, not when she was sleeping; not in such a state of unprotected innocence, meant for no eyes but God's.

He stepped back, his head pivoting away to look out the tall window that stretched to the very top of the high-ceilinged, imposing hallway. Fog was rolling in, in the distance, spreading across the gardens he had outlined to model Eden itself.

"No one would listen  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears…"

۞

His voice, calming and ethereal, meandered into her dreams. She thought at first it was only her mind's hopeful imagination, but then a heart-splitting sob shook her from her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up slowly._  
_

"_Shamed into solitude,  
Shunned by the multitude,  
I learned to listen,  
In my dark, my heart heard music…"_

She nearly fell to the floor in her rush to extract herself from her sheets, and she stumbled to the door, pressing her ear against the smooth oak._  
_

"_I long to teach the world,  
Rise up and reach the world,  
No one would listen,  
I alone could hear the music…"_

The sound was so near; he must be just outside her rooms. She laid a tentative hand on the doorknob, but did not open it._  
_

"_Then, at last, a voice in the gloom,  
Seemed to cry, I hear you,  
I hear your fears,  
Your torment and your tears…"_

She struggled against the tears in her eyes, as her mind overflowed in relief. He had _returned_. And he did not hate her; he _could not_ hate her. His voice…she had forgotten the beauty of his songs, the utter perfection of his speech, the way his words delved deep inside of her. The entrancing quality had only increased, and she found herself filled with a desperate longing to be held._  
_

"_She saw my loneliness,  
Shared in my emptiness,  
No one would listen,  
No one but her,  
Heard as the outcast hears."_

Unable to take any more, she flung the door wide open. He whirled around and stared at her, her eyes glittering with unshed tears; her nightdress spread unevenly across delicate limbs that quivered violently, her robe forgotten behind her. Her chest heaved.

His own eyes widened, and he raised a hand half way to her cheek, questioningly._  
_

"_No one would listen,  
No one but her,  
Heard as the outcast hears…"_

With a cry, she vaulted herself into his arms, and seized him in a violent kiss. Erik returned the kiss, flooded with relief as all the tension in his body dissipated. "I'm sorry," he blurted out when she pulled away. "Christine, I—"

"No, forgive me," she interrupted him breathlessly, "I could never hate you, I could never mean such things…" She stopped and kissed him again; short, sweet grazes of contact, over and over—until Erik took hold of her hips and lifted her into the air, forcing her lips to come harder against his.

Christine murmured wordlessly, her arms snaking around his neck. He scooped her legs up and carried her back into her room.

"Christine," he panted, suddenly breathless. "Christine, I cannot ever leave you, I cannot—" His voice broke and he seized her in a kiss again, his tongue tangling with hers as her fingers curled in his hair.

He deposited her next to the bed, slowly separating their lips, moving back only slightly so he could look into her eyes. They were brimming with love and unsteady excitement. At a loss for words, he traced the angles of her jawbone with gentle hands, then down her neck to rest on her shoulders.

"Erik," she whispered, gently pushing his arms down. "Don't stop me." Her voice turned to a whimper. "Please, don't stop me…"

He inhaled sharply as she pushed off his coat, and then reached, quivering, for the buttons of his vest. Before she could undo the first, he took both her hands in his. She looked up at him, confused.

"You can't," he forced out, not hearing his own words.

"Why…?" She half cried, half gasped, her knees nearly falling away.

"I am not…Christine, you do not know, not yet, of my…Not until you know who it is that you love."

"I know perfectly well whom I love," she said, a note of reproach in her voice. "It is you that hates yourself, not I. You are a man, Erik, no matter how hard that is for you to believe; a man susceptible to other men, and it is God's own fault that he put you through what he did, not yours." She embraced him, laying her head against his heaving chest. "You are human," she murmured, "redeemed, and forgiven…and loved…"

She tilted her head up invitingly, and this time he did not deny her what she sought. His mouth ravaged hers, leaving nothing untouched or undiscovered. She had taken advantage of his distraction to remove his cravat, waistcoat, and was starting on his shirt when he stopped her again.

"No," he growled. "You are mine to take, _Christine Daaé_." He hissed her maiden name with uncontained ferocity. Two words had taken them four years back, and Christine could feel memories of all that had happened since, slipping away. She was once again a virgin untainted, thrilled and afraid of what lay ahead, scraped away to the raw surface of her soul.

Erik captured her eyes with his, and she stood completely still, mesmerized, as he stripped off his shirt. He took up both her hands and guided them down the ridges and dips of his chest, outlining every muscle with her trembling fingers, needing her to know him. Against his bare skin, her touch was still not close enough.

Her breath came in short gasps as he stepped closer, forcing her to retreat. She fell back into a sitting position on the bed. He kneeled over her, taking possession of her lips in an enticing kiss as his hands explore every curve and crevice of her body. She shivered and moaned beneath him, writhing as his hands slid tantalizingly over her breasts, covered in only her thin nightdress, then moved on to cup the roundness of her hips.

Erik's head was reeling with disbelief. Everything was a clash of dark and light, Christine the only thing clear in the twisting mesh. After a lifetime of waiting, he had finally reached what he had direly wished for all along; it was even more divine than he had thought it would be. She was willingly his, in every aspect. She was giving him her future, forgetting the past for his love, and in her eyes the ecstasy of the present was his doing alone.

He positioned her arms so they stretched above her head, nipping her bottom lip before sliding down to her calves. He gradually pulled the hem of her nightgown higher and higher, his lips and tongue dancing on the skin of her legs as he went. When he reached the tender flesh of her inner thigh, she arched up with a glottal moan. "Please, Erik, _please_…"

With a low laugh, he dragged the dress up until it revealed everything below her breasts, their soft swell still covered in white lace.

She gasped at the contact of the cold night air; a gasp that quickly turned to another moan as he planted damp kisses from the base of her stomach up her abdomen. Her skin seemed like velvet sugar, making Erik lightheaded, as he left nothing untouched.

He slipped his hands underneath the nightgown, massaging each unrevealed breast with deft tenderness. With a feral cry, Christine pulled his head up to kiss him. He could taste salt from tears on her lips, and, somewhere in his mind, he realized it was not only she that was crying.

With a final tug, the nightgown was tossed to the side, and she was completely naked before him. The tears intensified at her beauty, and he leaned down to sample the flesh of her neck.

Her fingernails scraped his arms and his back, and then reached for the laces of his trousers. With an agile twist, he took her wrists and held them again above her head. She squirmed in protest, but he would not give in until _he_ thought he was finished.

She was reduced to sobs as his lips skated up her cheek and returned to her mouth, sealing the ritual with a heart-stopping kiss. He broke off with a gasp as her leg rose up between his, and they stared at each other as his attraction was made painfully obvious.

She had gotten him off his guard, and managed to free her hands. With strength neither of them had known she possessed, she all but tore the last garment from his lower limbs. "Now," she hissed, and in a flash of movement, peeled off the mask. When he saw neither fear nor disgust in her eyes, he could have laughed for joy. She placed a forceful kiss on his ravaged cheek, and then said again, "_God, Erik, now!_"

He plunged into her, stopping as her body when rigid, then molded around him. He leaned forward to hold her lips as she called out, pushing against him. His first thrust left her breathless, and then she rose to meet him, wrapping her legs around his waist to press him closer. Their cries grew more and more desperate as the thrusts sped up, growing in power as they neared the climax. They had both lost control of their bodies, letting instinct take over and reveling in the overwhelming sensations their senses were being treated to.

Then, with a shudder, Christine collapsed, and Erik soon followed. Their spent bodies lay next to one another, shaking in simultaneous pleasure. Then, two pairs of sweating palms reached out and grasped each other, fingers entwining.

Christine half crawled, half was pulled up by Erik to the head of the bed frame. They had not bothered to go under the covers, and Christine did not realize how cold the night was until she joined him beneath them.

He embraced her protectively, giving her a tired kiss. "…Cannot ever leave you," he murmured, "_Lord_, I love you, Christine."

"Hold me," she whispered, her eyelids drooping

"Forever," he replied readily, kissing her temple.

Neither of them could recall sleeping so peacefully in all their lives.

۞


	11. Evasive

۞

_**Chapter Ten:**_

_Evasive_

۞

The quiet was overwhelming.

It seemed to swallow up the room, pushed against his lungs as he tried to inhale. The very enormity of it was so powerful that it rang in his ears, as though silence itself was a noise.

Something tender and warm pressed against his lips, and it was so foreign a sensation that his surprise broke through the stifling hush, in the form of a cry. His eyes snapped open, light piercing into the unsuspecting irises. He winced instinctively, trying to register his surroundings without sight.

"Erik?" An unsteady voice whispered. "Are you all right? I'm sorry—should I not have woken you?" The tone was so hauntingly familiar that Erik felt an odd pang in his chest.

Then all his tensed muscles melted into the softness beneath him, as memories of the previous night swam to the surface of his mind. His eyes opened again, prepared this time, as he wrapped his arms around the delicate form beside him and crushed it to him.

"Christine." He hurriedly covered her face with feathery kisses, oddly elated as he felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile. Leaning back, he examined her face, trying to memorize its attributes and every phenomenon his body was experiencing with her skin against his. Her dark hair framed each overpoweringly close feature, the infinite brown of her eyes seeming to consume everything in the room. Her lips, rosy pink and swollen, were now parted as she exhaled unevenly.

"Good morning," she said unoriginally, but correctly. It was without a doubt the best morning Erik had ever had the pleasure to be subjected to. He struggled for something to say, but came up blank.

"I dare not speak," he finally murmured, "For fear that my heart will fall out of my mouth."

Christine laughed, a silvery sound that echoed in Erik's head. It was not mocking, but affectionate. "Why do you fear it?" She asked, placing a cool palm on his cheek. "It is the one thing I would desire most."

He wound one leg around hers and kissed her in response.

After a while, she turned away, grinning. "If we lie here any longer, Seth will come looking for us. It's near noon already."

Erik muttered an expletive. "Why did we bring that boy with us?"

Christine's grin only widened, and she slid away. As she sat up, the blanket fell away exposing the pale angles of her back. Her muscles rippled as she arched and stretched her arms, and Erik traced a finger down her spine, fascinated.

She shuddered and twisted around, taking hold of his hand. Breathless, Erik concluded silently that the front side of her was even more beautiful than the back. She started to say something, then broke off and blushed when she noticed how he was staring. The white light streaming in from the window made her a shadowy silhouette, so Erik couldn't see the red stains on her cheeks.

"Stay," he pleaded hoarsely.

Compliantly, she slithered back under the blanket and eagerly returned his embrace, suddenly kissing him with raw desperation. Just as Erik was about to propose they stay in bed for the remainder of the day, Christine's prediction followed through.

"Christine?" Several more knocks on the door, harsh and unforgiving, then, "It is very late, and I am bored. Are you awake?"

"_Damn it_." Erik grinded his teeth at Seth's confident drawl, gently pushing Christine up into a sitting position. They both eyed the door fearfully for a moment.

"One moment, Seth," Christine called, holding the blanket up to her chin. In quieter tones, to Erik, she said, "Hide in the bathroom."

"I—_what_?" Erik asked, momentarily bewildered. The order was so absurd that he didn't quite believe it at first.

"Hide in the bathroom! Go, hurry!" With a well-placed shove, she pushed him to his feet, retrieving her dressing gown and handing him a sheet she had tugged off the bed.

The knocks intensified. "Can I come in? Christine?"

"My mask," Erik started. Christine turned, and then held out the white adornment. She did not offer it to him, however. "Christine," he said in vexation, "Please."

She hesitated, and then passed it to him with a pained expression. He arranged it deftly on his face, vanishing into the adjoining chamber.

Christine tied her robe with fumbling hands. Her cheeks were still flushed from Erik's kisses, and she could feel her skin tingling where they had laid together. Nervously she patted down her hair, and opened the door.

Seth was already dressed, his curls bunched together and dripping down his face. The ends of his pants were caked with dirt, but his shoes were clean. He must have changed them before coming upstairs. "Hello," he greeted her cheerfully. Plowing his way past her, he surveyed the room with a serious expression. Christine smiled as he said with disdain, "It is a much nicer room than mine. M. de la Rue must like you more." He turned and examined her with the same look. "Perhaps it is because you are a girl. He has never had a girl here before."

"I am sure 'M. de la Rue' likes you just as much as he likes me, if not more," Christine said carefully. A muffled snort came from the direction of the bathroom, but Seth did not seem to hear it. He was traipsing around her room, inspecting the furniture with a critical eye, while she edged towards Erik's hiding place, trying to maintain a casual countenance.

"Whose are these?" Christine glanced up from the door handle she had been about to turn. Her jaw dropped in surprise. Seth was holding Erik's waistcoat, and gesturing to the rest of his clothes left peaking out from under the bed.

"Those…" Christine said blankly, her voice failing her. "Those are…"

"Wasn't M. de la Rue wearing this yesterday?"

"Certainly not," she stammered unconvincingly. "I should like to get dressed now, Seth, perhaps you should wait outside for me."

"But why do you have a man's clothes under your bed?" Seth persisted curiously, pulling the rest of the garments out and sifting through them.

"Seth," Christine exclaimed shrilly, "I asked you to leave!"

"These _are_ M. de la Rue's!" He pulled out Erik's cape. "You certainly don't wear these." He suddenly fixed his unnerving wide-eyed stare on her. "Why are you guarding that door?"

"What?" Christine asked thickly, panicking. Seth leapt up and maneuvered around her easily, wrenching open the door. Christine squeezed her eyes shut and prepared herself for the shout that would undoubtedly come next.

"You have a private bathroom?" Seth's indignant voice reached her ears. "M. de la Rue must like you very much." He came back out and went to the door. "You may get dressed now." Without another word, he left.

Christine stood, dumbstruck, for several seconds, before wheeling around and scrambling into the bathroom. It was empty. "Erik?" No answer. Her heart fluttered in alarm. "Erik, where are you?"

A sudden chill wrapped itself around her, and a flapping noise came from the window. It was wide open, the green curtains whipping in the wind. Christine stared at it for a moment, mesmerized by the splattering sound of the rain hitting the sill. Then, she keeled over and succumbed to astonished laughter.

۞

Only Seth had risen in time for breakfast, so it had not been formally served. Christine found Mrs. Attwater, or Edith as she preferred, and was directed to the kitchens. She left with the modest meal of a muffin and teacake, chewing on them absently as she meandered through the house. It seemed she had only gotten used to Erik's first residence when she had been thrust into an even larger, more confusing one.

Trusting that this would be a longer lasting abode, she sketched out a map in her head as she made her way through it. The size and sumptuousness of the house were only too characteristic of its creator, the dead end corridors and countless portals fairly reeking with Erik's love of all things mysterious.

_The Trapdoor Lover, indeed, _Christine thought, abruptly remembering a name Madame Giry had called him by years earlier.

Eventually losing track of which way left and right were, she entertained herself by musing over the possible connections Erik might have with Mrs. Attwater. The intimacy and ease with which the elderly woman referred to him was nothing short of startling, but as far as Christine knew, Erik had very little time to make outside acquaintances before he was brought to the Opera House. He had been with the gypsies for years before…Could Edith possibly be someone from an even earlier time in Erik's life? Perhaps someone his family had known?

Then Christine remembered that Madame Giry had left the Opera Populaire for over five years, when she married and had Meg, so she would have been unaware of Erik's activities during that time—_and_ Erik must have come to England sometime to build this house. Or had it all happened in the past four years?

Her head was all but bursting with questions. Her preoccupation over the subject was so distracting that she had wandered deep enough into the house as to not know the direction she had come from. She stopped in the middle of the hall. There were three directions she could go, all of which did not look familiar. She could only tell that she was still on the top floor of the house, for she was sure she had not gone down any stairs.

She decided to go down the center hall, with the most windows. Near the end of it was a very promising pair of double doors that she hoped would lead into an open space, or perhaps onto a balcony.

Unsettled by the solitary noise of her heels clicking against the polished floor, she approached them in rather a rush, and flung them open heedlessly.

Christine's first thought when she beheld the room was, _love_.

A rich red that seemed to be Erik's signature colour in all his houses, striped the walls and splashed across the furniture, bringing vividness and character to the soft beige that was the base hue. The carpet was the same light tan colour, thick and soft, relaxing under Christine's feet. The chamber was separated into two parts; the first was a sitting room of sorts, with several cushioned chairs and a divan in one corner, with a glossy, low-set table. A desk, devoid of any papers or writing utensils, sat in the opposite corner, an empty vase decorating its surface.

Christine's gaze was drawn to the pianoforte, the only piece of furniture that showed any proof of someone occupying the room. Its lid was opened, and the bench pulled out.

The other part of the room was awash in light, thanks to a great number of windows and a pair of glass doors leading out onto a balcony. The view was nearly as magnificent as Christine's room.

There was only one piece of furniture in this section, but it was all that was required. A huge four-poster bed, the striped beige and crimson spread untouched. A gauzy white canopy was tied back with cords of twisted silk.

Certainly there was no question as to whose room this was. Erik did not deprive himself of luxury, and why should he when he could easily afford it?

Now that she had located his rooms, Christine was eager to find the genuine article. She hadn't seen him since that morning, and it was well into the evening now. Smiling, she wondered how he had managed to climb out the window, wearing only a sheet, and made it all here without being seen.

Of course, thinking of that morning brought her to thinking about the night before it, and she blushed fiercely even though she was alone. Taking a seat on the divan, she attempted to compose herself by concentrating on other things—the weather, Seth, the house, puzzling Mrs. Attwater…

What if he was avoiding her? Surely he couldn't think anything was wrong, not after…and he wouldn't leave now, unless she meant nothing to him.

_Stop worrying, _she ordered herself. _He'll be here any moment and everything will be fine._

Content for the moment, she sat there recalling every scandalous detail and delicious touch, waiting for him to return.

۞

Frowning, Erik strolled purposefully down the hall, yesterday's clothes tucked under his arm. He had waited in Christine's room for half an hour, at least, and she hadn't shown up. He knew she wasn't outside with Seth, and she had stopped at the kitchens to have breakfast. She had to be _somewhere_ in the house.

As he made his way through the east wing of the house, a hideous suspicion came over him. Could she be avoiding him? What if she had had second thoughts, and was absolutely furious…and wanted him to leave after all.

Cursing quietly, he sped up, loosening his cravat with agitation. Climbing out the window had irritated the injury on his shoulder, though it was all but entirely healed. The scab had stretched uncomfortably, and he was desperately tempted to itch it.

If she had the audacity to reject him after that feat—well, he would like to see _her_ try to climb out a window and across the roof.

He shook himself mentally, pushing back the surge of anger. She hadn't even told him off yet, and already he was vile-tempered.

Only several metres away from his destination, Erik froze. Both his bedroom doors were wide open. He had specifically forbidden Seth and Mrs. Attwater to enter his rooms, under any circumstances.

_What in hell…?_

Gritting his teeth, he stepped inside with three long strides, preparing himself to confront the intruder.

۞

It was the sound of his breathing that alerted her of his presence. Christine got to her feet, smiling. His shocked expression was somehow gratifying. "You aren't avoiding me, then."

"Avoiding you…?" He asked feebly.

"I hadn't seen you since morning, so naturally I wondered why I couldn't seem to find you—I _am_ sorry for intruding, but I didn't know where else to look, and I thought you must return to your room _sometime_, so I waited—"

She was cut off as he pulled her into his embrace, chuckling quietly. "And I was waiting in your room, good lord—" He kissed both her cheeks. "I shall have to lock you up so I can locate you when it suits me, without having to trek through the entire house."

۞

It was some time later that Erik had time to fully reflect on his feelings.

The darkness was almost impenetrable, even though windows surrounded his bed. The rain had slowed to a gentle patter, lulling him into a semi-comatose state of deep thought. Christine had, in sleep, rolled away from the nook of his arm and now rested on her back with one arm slung limply above her head. Her breathing was peaceful and even.

The overcast hid the moon, so he could only admire the silhouette of her, but it was enough. The assuaged angles of her neck and shoulders were hidden by masses of brown curls that shrouded her face like a frame of shadow. His own breathing quickened, and he quickly glanced away. Even after the second night of her lying with him, he still feared to mar her innocence.

It had been when he was waiting for her in her chambers that the full realization of his actions had struck him. True, Christine was no longer married, and would soon in fact be dead to the citizens of France. He dared not doubt her affection for him, as his idiocy had forced her to prove it several times over. But was _she_ wholly prepared for what might, and in all probability was bound to occur if they continued on like this? There would be…results, to term it delicately, and they were not married—not even engaged, in fact.

He chuckled shortly, amazed at the coolness with which he was examining the situation. Four years away from her had taught him an even more brutal sense of survival than the one he had learned in the cellars of the opera—one that did not include the protective walls of his underground home, or the method he had used to easily dispose of people who got in his way. He had to cope with his problems like any normal person would, in addition to the hostile, restrained nature with which people regarded his mask. In a way, it had led him to posses a guarded respect for humanity, now that he lived as one of them.

When Christine had returned to him, they had both been entirely different people, their real desires buried under almost five years of loneliness and bitter acceptance. Only these few desires had driven them back to each other, one victim clinging to another, searching for empathy and compassion.

His trance was broken temporarily, as Christine stirred and turned onto her side, facing him. His eyes had grown accustom to the dark, and he took a moment to admire her blurred countenance. Her eyes moved beneath their lids in dreaming, fragile lashes quivering. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips drooped gravely. His gaze dropped almost instinctively to where the sheets revealed the barest swell of her breasts. Again, he looked away.

_How horribly sentimental you have made me, Christine, _he thought with a raise of his eyebrows. His entire brain had melted into an unintelligible mush, save the part that thought incessantly of her. The only thing that seemed to compel him was the need for her touch, her gaze—the affections that he wanted solely for himself. He was so ridiculously infatuated that if she spent time with even Seth, he would in all likelihood be green with envy. It was selfish of him, but for the first week, at _least_, he wanted her attentions on he alone. He couldn't find it in himself to share her just yet.

She stirred again, this time reaching out blindly and smacking him, albeit lightly, square on the chin. He let out a bark of laughter, and then inhaled sharply as the thin sheet, disturbed by her movement, fell away.

I'll be damned if she's turned me into a maudlin fool just yet. 

He awoke her without difficulty, and proved that his ardent disposition was not at all extinguished.

۞

Two weeks passed; an absolutely blissful two weeks, in Christine's opinion. Erik did not leave, as she had known he would not. She spent her days almost entirely in his company, setting their activities by the unpredictable weather. When it rained, she resumed her singing lessons in the grand ballroom, decidedly her second favourite room in the house (next to Erik's). When the clouds dissipated, Seth accompanied them on walks through the elaborate gardens and the forest beyond. It was so exceedingly bizarre to see Erik outside, in the company of a little boy, that Christine was completely reduced to fits of giggles the first time they ventured out. Now, she took an almost parental pride in watching him, dressed to the nines, explaining the mysteries of Mother Nature to the eagerly inquisitive Seth.

The singing was a different matter. Christine suspected that, on the sly, Erik had strictly forbidden Seth to disturb them when they entered the ballroom. Normally a boy of his demanding nature would burst in at any given moment, but they remained uninterrupted throughout each lesson. Christine had regained her voice quickly with Erik as her tutor, and they were almost at the point to progress into things she had not yet learned. However, this did not please her as much as it might have.

The lessons were eerily familiar, pulling Christine into the past, willing or otherwise. Erik's enchanting methods transformed the majestic ballroom into the modest, neglected chapel of the Opera Populaire. She could feel layers of experience and confidence peeling away as she sang, relegating her to the pious, naïve chorus girl she now barely knew.

The way Erik still managed to shrink her down so dramatically disturbed her, rousing a reluctant fear in the back of her mind. She had promised herself she would see him as a man, and treat him accordingly, but with each afternoon spent inside, her feelings grew more and more unsteady. It wasn't until the keys of the piano silenced and her voice died in her throat that she fell with a whoosh of breath back to reality, clutching at air in an attempt to steady herself.

She knew Erik sensed it within her, by the enigmatic sidelong glances he always gave her after the lesson. It seized him just as powerfully as it did her; she could tell by the mist that clouded his eyes over when he played, a spark of his old obsession creeping back onto his countenance. It was pale in comparison to the preceding crazed devotion, but Christine recognized the signs as easily as she might recognize her own reflection. She knew she had to find some way to drive the ghost out of them before one of both of them succumbed, but how to go about it still eluded her.

The other dilemma that kept the two weeks from reaching perfection was a growing uneasiness on Erik's part. Christine had felt it at first, as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering back and forth, waiting for something to come and disturb them in their new haven.

But the worry had been successfully squashed after less than three days, and she had decided, when Erik continued to give her, what he believed to be surreptitious, fretful glances, that he must have something profoundly more important on his mind. She had tried gently to pry it out of him on more than one occasion, dropping subtle hints, giving him plenty of opportunities to open up to her. He had, in his typical curt fashion, brushed her off and changed the subject.

She herself knew quite well that there were several topics of importance that would have to be brought up sooner or later, and she fully intended to make it _later_. They were quite publicly sharing a room now—as public as something might be considered with an elderly woman and a small boy, even with the new staff Erik had hired to care for the house—and to Christine's surprise he took an odd pleasure in it.

She had to remind herself that Erik had never led a normal domestic life, and that the familiar gossip of servants was not so familiar to him at all. Their staff was wholly mystified at the relationship between herself and Erik, as there was no ring on her finger, but he treated her far better than a mistress.

Seth rather astonished them as well; it was almost unheard of for a wealthy, high-class gentleman such as Erik to take in children off the street. Christine herself was baffled at what purpose Seth served in Erik's eyes, save annoying him to no end. She was beginning to think, with a certain degree of hope, that Erik allowed the boy to accompany him purely out of sympathy and kindness.

She received answers to almost all of these questions one warm, weary Thursday evening, two weeks and three days subsequent to their arrival.

They had retired, after a humid, cloudy day of exploring the gardens, to the library. The hearth had been lit, and Christine was reclining leisurely in a comfortably padded chair, _Wuthering Heights_ resting open in her lap. Erik had browsed the selection of books before taking a seat to her right, empty handed. She had observed him interestedly for a brief moment as he stared into the fire, then shrugged her slim shoulders and returned to her reading. She could not force him into confiding in her just yet.

"I didn't know you read such quixotic silliness," he commented after a while, his eyes sparkling in good humour as he gestured to her novel.

Christine flushed slightly, but returned his look of exaggerated gravity. "This is _your_ library."

"Surely you are not suggesting that _I_ purchased that waste of paper."

"Well, Seth certainly did not."

He regarded her shrewdly for a moment, his lips curving upwards in the barest of smiles. "You are excessively curious about him," he stated bluntly. "You've been asking ridiculously oblique questions about him all week. I suppose I shan't be allowed to keep secrets from you any longer."

"I have a suspicion," Christine commented blithely, placing her book down and taking a seat beside him on the sofa, "that you aren't half as mysterious as you pretend to be."

This issued a skeptical snort from him. After a moment, he spoke. "The reason you doubt Seth's usefulness is because you have not witnessed him in his element. The boy is decidedly average in many things, but—" He broke off, and looked at her, face alight with enthusiasm. "Christine; the boy is, quite literally, a master of disguise."

Christine's face wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Erik leaned forward, his eyes glazing over in memory. "When I first encountered Seth, he was dressed in a stolen, quality tailored suit. He was standing on the sidewalk, chin in the air, staring down at the world as if the very King of England was below him. When he saw me, he said, in perfect imitation of the upper-class drawl—"

Erik paused, as his mouth twisted in reluctant admiration.

"'Sir, that mask is most unsettling. I must question whether your purposes for wearing it are entirely honest, as you can only be endeavoring to obscure your true identity by adorning it. One attempting to hide one's true identity must be a criminal of some sort, for one would certainly not wish to hide one's face when performing a good deed. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that you are a fraudulent imposter, and will have to report you to the authorities.'"

Christine's lips, which she had been struggling to keep tightly shut, burst open in a gale of laughter. Seth, her own grubby, uncivilized Seth, was a master of disguise! She could hardly imagine it.

Erik reservedly shared her amusement with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "I was about ready to throttle him when he whipped off his cap and confessed _his_ true identity. I have taken a personal interest in his education ever since."

Covering her mouth with her hand to hide her mirth, Christine asked, "But the art of disguise—even at such an advanced level—what possible career choice would he have where he could use it?"

"He has been of considerable use to me several times, but I suppose he will grow up sooner or later," Erik replied, looking pensive. "I have suggested some options to him, in hopes of sparking his interest, but _government spy_ was hastily rejected." He let out a gusty sigh. "I suppose it is partly my fault that he tends to use his abilities for more…dishonest, shall we say, purposes."

Christine's smile quickly faded. "You mean…?"

"He has more than once expressed a plan to become the _Master Criminal_, as he puts it, capitals and all."

"But if we sent him to the right schools—"

"What _quality_ school will accept a boy off the streets, Christine?" Erik snapped venomously.

Christine realized she had touched on a tender spot, and rested her hand cautiously on Erik's arm. "Forgive me," she said quietly. "You are right; I didn't think before I said it."

He gave her a rueful smile, and raised the hand to his lips. "Forgive me as well," he murmured.

Christine sighed, and rested a head against his shoulder wearily. "You truly care for the boy, don't you?" When Erik didn't reply, she glanced up at him. "Erik?"

"I had never thought to have…I took him in as a—as a son, you might say." He voice was steady, but Christine could see the conflict in his eyes. "There are other things we need to talk about, Christine."

She quickly sat up straight. "If you aren't ready—"

"I'll have no more of your tender coddling," he informed her, through gritted teeth. "No, Christine, it is time _you_ understand exactly what you are undertaking."

Christine swallowed apprehensively, and closed her mouth. Erik got to his feet with his back to her, leaving her right side feeling conspicuously colder. She watched his shoulders rise and fall, and sensed his hesitation. "Start from the beginning," she suggested gently.

He nodded. With a stoic tone, he began.

۞

"I was born in Rochefort, to Eleanor Levesque, the wife of a successful merchant. He and my mother did not love each other, however, and I was the result of her affair with another man. I suspect my father found out of the affair, and abandoned my mother before I was born. I have never been told him name.

"My mother gave birth to me in the home of her only sibling, her older sister, her parents having both passed away. My mother considered my face a message from God, punishing her for adultery. She refused to see me for the first month after my birth, only my aunt and her servants caring for me. My aunt had inherited her parents' small fortune, but had lost her husband at sea only a year after their marriage. She devoted her time to caring for her sister's cast off child, while my mother spent her time in her room or at church.

"When my mother finally did come to see me, she brought a mask with her to hide the deformed part of my face. It became a permanent part of my wardrobe as I grew up in my aunt's household, and I was forbidden to go near any mirror or reflective surface without it on.

"When I was four, my aunt and mother had a falling out, and my aunt returned to England, the homeland of her parents. My mother and I roamed from city to city for two years, I always hidden from view, forbidden to go outside our modest living quarters, forbidden to ever remove my mask in another's presence. When we finally settled down in Bourges, I was six years of age, and my mother had become the most terrifying woman I have ever encountered. She had already been a vain, self-centered woman when I was born—the shame of living penniless and scrounging for food had driven her mad. I remember her coming home every evening, screeching at nothing, throwing things at the wall while I watched through a crack in the door."

He paused, shuddering. Christine sat very still, afraid to take her eyes off his averted form. She felt somehow her gaze was pinning him down, the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the horror of his memories.

"She had hated me since birth, and I had only proved to be a thorn in her side as time went on. She would not let me leave the house, so I could not beg for money, or work for food. I was only a nuisance to her, a dreaded marker to remind her of her previous sins. She loathed me with every frail bone in her body, and sometimes I thought her contempt for me was the only thing that kept her in the living world. She seemed to thrive off punishing me, and then would order me out of her sight when she was too weak to take any more."

Christine dared not ask what he meant by her punishing him, partly because she did not want to know, and partly because she feared she already did.

"It was therefore of no consequence to her when she sold me to a traveling fair, when I was eight years old. The gypsies paid her enough money for her to buy a steamer ticket back to England, and she left me with them without a backward glance. My last memory of her is her grabbing the coins out of a gypsy's hand, and sneering as she handed me back my mask, after taking it off to display it like a product she was advertising—which, come to think of it, is exactly what I was.

"I lived with the gypsies until I was thirteen, first a part of the _cirque du freak_, and then promoted to having my own exhibit as my popularity increased."

He finally turned to face her, his eyes narrowed and glowing with rage, his mouth distorted in abhorrence. "The _Devil's Child_ had swiftly become the biggest attraction in the fair. My owner, Pavel, was soon the highest profiting in their band. This resulted in an argument between him and his brother, and one night his brother tried to kidnap me from my—_cage_, to claim me for his own. When I resisted, he brought out his knife and tried to subdue me."

His voice grew very soft, almost like a cat's purring, only far more ominous. "He was the first. I tripped him over backwards and flipped the knife, puncturing his lung. He did not live to see morning, and when he was discovered I was already back in my cage, and no one suspected me."

Christine's throat was constricting painfully, but her eyes remained almost unnaturally dry. She ached to blink, to turn away from him. But she could not.

"Pavel mourned his brother's death, and I was his only release for his anger. If he had known I was the murderer, his whip would have come down much harder—but he did not know. And I survived another year before Antoinette—Madame Giry saved me. She had hung back after the first group of the night had gotten bored, and seen me as I took advantage of Pavel's distraction while he collected the money he had earned."

All anger vanished from his countenance, and was replaced with a look of thoughtful bewilderment. "I believe at first I only meant to subdue him, to render him unconscious so I would have enough time to escape…It did not turn out that way. Madame Giry freed me, and led me to the Opera House."

He turned to look at her. She gasped in a breath she did not know she had been holding. "Continue," she said hoarsely. "Please."

He stepped towards her, and then seemed to think better of it. "I grew to know the Opera Populaire better than anyone ever had, and probably ever will. It was the only true home I had ever known, and it was there were I first discovered my passion for music." He paused, and smiled faintly at her. "It was as though I was falling asleep after a age of trekking across the driest deserts, the foulest marshes, the most treacherous mountains, without rest…I still cannot explain it. But it captured me, and at once I knew where my future lay."

He shrugged, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "With music. There had already been a rumor going around about a ghost, haunting the Opera House. The managers at that time were particularly superstitious gentlemen, and all it took was a few simple stunts to convince them into paying me enough to afford my own piano. As I grew older, the stunts improved, my knowledge grew. I raided the library, studying everything I could on architecture, music, illusionism…

"Madame Giry was, of course, my only connection to the outside world. When she suddenly became engaged, and left the Opera House…It felt as though my mother was selling me to the gypsies once more. She was abandoning me to rot in the cellars, or so I felt, and it was then that the…" He choked on his words. "…The need for revenge, the _blood thirst_—" His voice was cold again. He turned a defiant glare on her, as though challenging her to contradict him. "—Came over me. It was the first time I had taken a step outside the Opera House, when I left. Something drove me from the place, now only another site of heartless desertion.

"I traveled on what money I had received from the Managers and a small income from demonstrations I put on while moving through Europe, and eventually on to Southern Russia. People were easily entertained by the simplest of tricks, and I was gaining a reputation as a nomadic magician. It was because of this title that I was brought to Persia, to entertain the little Sultana."

His features were rigid as the mask on the right side of his face, gleaming in the firelight. "My time in Persia was not one fit for story telling," he informed her frostily.

"This is not a story," Christine responded with wounded dignity. She had maintained her composure thus far, and failed to see how it could get any worse than his first two murders. The bland expression he wore while speaking of them had chilled her to the bone, but she dared not interrupt. "I would like to hear."

The look on his face told her he thought she was a fool for saying so, but he continued anyways. "The Sultana was, and is, the most immorally perverse being I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. She was only a young girl, but her fascination with death and torture were well advanced. My skill as a magician quickly bored her, but I had become an invaluable source of amusement to her. She would not give me up. Instead, she assigned me more difficult tasks, and took full advantage of all I had learned in the library of the Opera House. I was commissioned to design her a palace of palaces, and, eager to impress, bigoted by power in the Persian court, I did exactly as she ordered.

"As soon as she took residence in the new palace, she experimented with every aspect of it. The torture chamber I had created especially to please her was never empty, and it led her to another level of interest in the practice. She developed…a new sport, or game, as she considered it. I, the Sultana's most prized possession, was placed in a stadium with only a Punjab lasso, and she sent in warrior after warrior to combat me. It was, in the literal sense of the phrase, 'kill…'"

His tone grew quiet as he finished. "…Or be killed.' I was ordered to slaughter the men, who were captives of the Sultana, and it was only my weakened survival instinct that carried me through the days. By the time I fully comprehended the sickening evil I was taking part in, it was too late to leave. The Sultana ordered her chief of police to assassinate me after my first escape attempt, and I would have died that night…But the Daroga was the greatest of virtuous individuals, and had been my only friend throughout the four years of endless bloodshed. He allowed me to flee the country, and spent five years in a jail _I_ had built for his disobedience.

"There were the blood of over a hundred men on my hands when I left Persia, stumbling back to France seeking the comforting darkness of my Opera House. It was another two years before Madame Giry returned, and she assumed I had been all the while, my trivial haunting again a source of gossip for the ballet rats." Faltering, his hands dropped loosely to his sides and he looked at her helplessly. "I suppose you know the rest."

۞

Christine finally squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling and tumbling over her cheeks like twin rivers. It seemed as though a hole had been carved into her stomach, a horrible aching pain consuming her small frame as she clutched at her sides. She felt hollow all of a sudden, her arms awkward and sore as they embraced indifferent nothingness.

She knew now what had brought about the haunted, apathetic chill in his eyes, and why he still cried out from time to time in his sleep. His nightmares were no longer a mystery, for they would be hers as well.

۞

Erik clenched his jaw and looked away as Christine curled into a protective shield and sobbed jarringly. He fought back the moisture in his own eyes, crushing the impulsive urge to kneel before her and beg for forgiveness. She had wanted to know, he told himself; it was her burden to carry, not his. Her fear and hate would surely be the death of him, but there was no turning back.

What happened next, as far as he was concerned, was nothing short of divine intervention. A pair of desperately gripping arms came at him from the side and held him tightly, as hard kisses were pressed to his shoulder. Christine clung to him like a wild animal, her tears dripping off her nose and onto the arm of his coat, leaving diluted stains. Her lips were moving, but her voice was too muffled against fabric for him to understand her.

Erik stared at her, wide-eyed, as she continued in a frenzied rush, then stepped in front of him and attempted to shake him. The attempt was a failure as he was nearly twice her size, so she slumped helplessly against him, wrinkling his lapels as she clenched her fists around them. He finally let his arms go around her, and they stood there, both panting, for several minutes.

"You undoubtedly have the most wretched past of anyone I have ever met," she said softly. "You are quite lucky my parents are no longer alive, or they would most certainly not let me marry you."

Erik watched in shock as she held out an elaborate diamond ring, the very one that he had put in his pocket earlier that day. He had intended to propose, if she still loved him before the night was through.

He scrambled for something to say, his mouth opening and closing helplessly. "You've spoiled the surprise," he muttered feebly after a moment, quite aware of how childish he sounded.

She sniffed loudly, and gave him a watery smile, slipping the ring back into his pocket. "How wretched of me."

Still entwined, they took a seat back on the sofa, Christine settling contentedly onto his lap. Erik retrieved the ring, and they both admired it silently as it glittered in the fire. The band was silver, and curled gracefully around a set of three large diamonds, the center one raised slightly higher than the others.

"I accept," Christine said breathily, holding out her hand compliantly.

"I haven't asked yet," he informed her stubbornly, closing his fingers around the ornament.

"You are taking a very long time." She hastily wiped her eyes. "What the devil are you planning to say?" She asked him, laughing and crying, employing Seth's favourite curse word he had taught her several days earlier.

He exposed the ring again and stared at it. "I have never proposed marriage before," he commented blandly.

"I should hope not."

Ignoring her sarcasm, he took a deep breath. Which as much a sincere smile as she had ever seen him wear, he held the band out to her, offering it. "Marry me, Christine?"

She promptly burst into tears again, only managing to nod dumbly and hold out her hand as he slipped it onto her finger. With clumsy fingers, she pushed off his mask and kissed him, the saltiness of her tears tingling on his lips.

۞

The house was dark when they spoke again, this time tucked comfortably in Erik's four-poster bed, Christine dreamily observing how the diamonds in her ring reflected the moonlight. "What are we going to do now, Erik? Live in this castle and take care of Seth, until we grow old and can only sit at the piano and play?"

She spoke in jest, but Erik's answer was quite serious.

"I expect, Christine, that between the two of us we will never leave such a calm, peaceful life. No doubt some dilemma will approach us before the year is finished."

That dilemma did in fact approach them, much sooner than the year's end. Not a month had passed before it came to their door, in the form of one Raoul de Chagny.

۞

**Author's Note:** I used a mixture of Leroux, Kay, and my own imagination to conjure up Erik's past. Hope you enjoyed it. :)


	12. Collision

۞

_**Chapter Eleven:**_

_Collision_

۞

"Well, perhaps you would _prefer_ that I stay in the town, tonight?"

Christine faltered, her combative pose sagging as she used the sense Erik's bitter tone had suddenly induced. They were standing at opposite ends of the room, his study, both red-faced with fury and shaking with indignation. As was per usual, Christine couldn't quite recall what had started _this_ argument, but it had grown too heated for comfort.

She softened, immediately regretting her irrational anger, and opened her mouth to apologize. This was how all of their quarrels ended, with abrupt forgiveness and excessive sweetness for hours afterward. As Mrs. Attwater had told her before, the arguments were useful for relieving her feelings, especially since Erik was the only person who could ever get her in a temper and he had quickly reduced it to a fine art.

Unfortunately, before she could actually utter the words, a knock on the door startled them both.

"I'm terribly sorry to intrude," Mrs. Attwater said, looking genuinely so. "But there's a man at the door—"

Erik interrupted her with a curt expletive. "Who is he? Damn it, Edith, no one must know where we are!"

With an offended glare, the woman replied, "Isn't that a little overly cautious, Monsieur? They could not have followed you here—_and_ the man gave me his card. He said it was a matter of urgency."

Christine was closest to the door, so she accepted the card with apprehensive curiosity.

_Le Comte de Chagny_. 

۞

Erik watched, seething, as Christine took the card before he could cross the room. The incensed anger slowly began to fade away, replaced with cold indifference. This was the first time they hadn't made up immediately after an argument since they were engaged.

_I will certainly _not_ be the one to start the apologies, _he thought resentfully.

His hardened countenance slipped for a moment, however, when she paled and leaned against the doorframe, her mouth dropping open in shock. He reached forward and took the card from her, using his free hand to steady her as he quickly read it over.

He swore again, this time at length.

_Comte de Chagny._

Both dread and frustration rose in his throat, but his expression remained impassive. No doubt it was '_a matter of urgency'_. The man wouldn't have come unless Christine was in danger.

"Erik, why is—" Christine started, anxiously reaching for his hand.

He brushed it off, maneuvering around Mrs. Attwater and out the door. "Something's gone wrong," he called back, and heard the rushed click of heels as both women followed him.

۞

Raoul rubbed a hand across his eyes tiredly, not really taking anything in as he looked around the grand foyer. The address he had been given in case of emergency had been hard to locate, but now that he was here he knew there could be no mistake. The place practically reeked of its owner.

He felt the acute need to vomit across the flawlessly polished floors.

As the portly housekeeper reappeared, he swallowed the fast rising bile and attempted to look respectable. The bags under his eyes and the pathetic wear of his clothes rather defeated the effort.

He thought he had prepared himself, but his mind reeled when Christine came around the corner, her dress new and her hair done impeccably. Something had made her hold her chin higher, and brought the healthy glow back to her cheeks. She was beautiful, but it was no longer _his_ beauty.

He caught her eye, and she looked away.

"Chagny." Raoul transferred his gaze to the man whom he had unwillingly become entangled with, and couldn't identify the emotion he provoked—something between jealousy and admiration, and then gratefulness.

"I've made a terrible mistake," Raoul said, not one to evade the issue. "There's someone after the Chagnys, but it isn't the Commune. Please, I must speak with you—I'm supposed to be in Paris come morning."

۞

Christine hadn't been able to meet Raoul's inquisitive gaze, her shame was so overpowering. He looked half-dead, his face haggard and his attire shabby from usage; she was the very picture of vigor and wellbeing.

He had all but collapsed onto the couch, and Erik poured him a whiskey and soda without comment. Accepting with a thankful nod, he gulped the liquid down quickly. Christine could not help but observe the desperate and agitated manner that seemed to linger in his movements.

She realized only too late that she had begun to stare rudely, and she glanced away, blushing, as Erik's eyes burned into her. She knew there was only affection for a friend within her where Raoul was concerned, but she also knew this would not stop _Erik_ from interpreting her actions in a different light.

"I was not followed—I made sure the spy was rendered incapable of doing so before I left," Raoul informed them, and Erik visibly relaxed.

"Who?"

"The butler."

Christine cried out involuntarily, disgusted as she recalled the aquiline features of Rene Deniau. "He's been in the Nice residence for years!" She exclaimed.

"The conspiracy was intricately planned," Raoul said gravely, and Christine immediately felt uncomfortable. Speaking directly to him after so long was having an odd affect on her.

"I suggest you explain, Monsieur le Comte, before you are too late to catch the steamer back." Erik had observed the exchange with icy calm.

"Of course," Raoul muttered. "My apologies—the journey has tired me." He set down his empty glass, and leaned forward, his eyes focusing on a spot just above both Erik's and Christine's heads.

"It was not long after you left that the Commune was dissolved, and I was almost laughing with the irony of it all. So soon after sending you to England, all that we had been afraid of was defeated. I was so relieved…" He trailed off, staring dreamily at the wall. Then, with a shake, he resumed.

"Then, another letter arrived. It said simply, '_You cannot keep a secret.' _My first thought was that some leftover rebels of the group meant to continue their work. I brushed it aside, though I was still nervous. But I thought that their numbers were too few to take action. When the second letter came, it bore a seal." He withdrew a crumpled envelope from his pocket and handed it to Erik.

"It was the first time any of the letters had any symbol of identification. I knew then that I had been horribly wrong. This is the seal of—"

"Duke Muriel Bonheur," Erik interjected, frowning. "The man's dead."

"Duke Bonheur?" Christine asked, confused. She did not recognize the name.

Raoul shot her a glance, then returned to staring above their heads. "Let me explain.

"I respected my father when I was a child. He was affectionate, and high-spirited—rather too high-spirited, as his frivolousness took him far away from our home, and pushed Philippe into the role of parental guidance for me long before my father died.

"The man had always had a taste for chance, and was not one to turn down a challenge of any sort. It was because of these traits he became involved in an underground gambling circle, run by Duke Bonheur, who had a certain reputation for luck of that sort—his name was quite ironic, really, but it became a sort of signature for the group, which would later be known as the Good Luck Scandal.

"The Duke was confident, cunning, and, most importantly, was in possession of nearly unlimited funds. The men who joined his circle were quite in awe of him—save my father. The Comte had never been a man to let another's shadow eclipse him. He rose in the gambling field, just as he had the social ladder. His ego and that of the Duke's were both far too large to be compatible, and clashed quickly.

"The Duke bet my father on a trivial matter, something that seemed too foolish to actually put money on. In fact, that was exactly what the Duke needed. He fixed the bet, but my father was too blinded by his conceit to reject Bonheur.

"My brother and I were never quite aware of what went wrong, but the Duke's informant made a mistake, and my father won. The Duke had bet more money than he could afford to lose, and he was enraged. He had wanted my father's money, and he knew there wouldn't be another chance after the loss. His reputation in the circle would be crippled.

"But Bonheur at least would still have his money, for he had been handing out counterfeit bills for years. He paid my father with false money, and was satisfied that at least he had not entirely lost. But my father, as proud as he was, had the money examined.

"He threatened the Duke with exposure, if the man didn't pay him what was his due. The Duke responded in kind, threatening my father with his very life if he did not drop the issue immediately.

"My father was irrational, but he knew when the situation called for outside reinforcement. He bought out the authorities, and in exchange for his anonymity, he revealed the identity of the infamous circle's founder. The Duke was stripped of his title and wealth, shunned by society, and eventually forgotten altogether, except when recent gossip began to bore people and they brought up the old rumors.

"He died embittered and disgraced. But before his last breath, his son, Nicolas Bonheur swore to the dying man that he would punish the Chagny family for what they had done."

Raoul sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "My brother warned me of Nicolas when I was very young, the only family enemy and possible threat to our title. I believe that Bonheur has chosen his time to strike, but he has gone beyond simply humiliating the family." Raoul hesitated.

"He means to destroy it," Erik finished, his eyes narrowed.

"Not without a good deal of suffering and agony first," Raoul added with a cheerless laugh. "He meant to obtain part of the fortune by posing as the Commune and asking for money—quite clever, really, as the police wouldn't be able to do anything if it _were_ the Commune. He must have _some_ funds to afford the spies he has planted. Are you sure your household is secure?"

"Yes," Erik replied with confidence. "You believe he will use Christine as another way of tormenting you, then."

"And a lure, yes. But he doesn't know where she is. He won't give up, though, which is why you must be certain. I've met the man—he's _mad_, damn it, there's no telling what he might do."

Erik stiffened, and said between his teeth, "I suppose I would be the expert on the actions of _madmen_."

"Don't be so _damned_ sensitive, Erik. There are more important things to worry about now."

All three of them wheeled around to face the door, where Edith Attwater stood, calmly observing the exchange. Raoul stood, his face darkening.

"I thought you said your house was secure," he growled at Erik, moving towards the woman. Erik got to his feet and grabbed the Comte by his arm, flinging him back into the chair.

"She's no danger to you, Chagny. The woman's my aunt."

۞

Christine gaped, first at Erik, then at Mrs. Attwater. The woman's mouth was curved in the barest of smug grins. "Your…_the_ aunt…?" She asked weakly.

"Yes, _the_ aunt, if I am correctly interpreting your dramatic intonations," Erik replied cynically. "Perhaps you had better accompany _the_ aunt outside while I discuss some matters of importance with our guest."

"I am just as much a part of this as either of you," Christine replied stubbornly, not moving.

With a growl, Erik took her by the shoulders and pulled her up from her seat. She shrieked in indignation and struggled to push him away, but his grip was hard as rock. He half dragged, half carried her across the room, shoved her out the door, and slammed it in his aunt's face.

۞

When the two men emerged later, Christine was sitting on the bench in the hall, her head resting limp against the back of it. She had fallen asleep waiting for them.

Raoul admired her with a reluctant fascination. He longed to talk with her, like they used to, even for just a moment. Amazingly, it was Erik who granted his wish.

"I've got to speak with Mrs. Attwater, if you'll watch her for a moment," he gestured absently to Christine, already walking away down the hall.

Raoul bristled at the indifference with which the man treated her. He had brutally manhandled her earlier, and Raoul had been too shocked to even interfere. He could already see bruises forming where Erik's fingers had been.

Could there be any more…?

"Raoul?" A soft, tired voice broke into his thoughts.

"You're awake," he said, startled. She blinked several times, trying to focus. Her awareness returned with a start when she realized he was holding her hand, and she immediately tried to pull it away. "Please, Christine," he protested gently, and she subsided, looking ashamed.

"I'm sorry…how are you?" He was touched by the worry that clouded her eyes.

"Exhausted," he admitted, with a feeble smile. "But, you…you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, confused at the sudden agitation in his voice.

"You're happy? He's not…Christine, if you're being mistreated, you only have to say…we could arrange for someone else to foster you—"

"I'm fine," she repeated, this time firmly. "Erik was only aggravated by your arrival, Raoul. It is his way of caring for me, if a bit…unusual."

"If you're sure," he murmured, though his tone implied he hoped she wasn't. "Otherwise, though? You're completely healthy?"

Her hand drifted to her middle, and she nodded, eyes shining oddly. "Quite healthy. Perhaps you should let go now, Raoul; Erik will be here any moment, and he…" She drifted off, but he didn't need her to finish the sentence to catch her meaning. Releasing her hand, he got to his feet.

The significance of her hand's movement suddenly struck him, and he froze up instantly. The diamond ring she wore glittered malevolently. Staring at it where it rested just below her abdomen, he asked in an eerily bland voice, "You are _both_ healthy?"

Her eyes widened, then she flushed. "It is not for certain," she replied quietly. "I have not mentioned anything yet."

"I am happy for you," he said, and Christine could actually hear the attempt to _be_ happy in Raoul's voice. His eyes gave him away—his face had always been an open book to her.

"Thank you," she said warmly, grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"You should be leaving, Monsieur le Comte."

Christine quickly dropped Raoul's hand at the sound of Erik's voice, the low purr that was worse than his yelling.

"Yes," Raoul agreed. "I must reach Paris before morning." He gave Christine a short bow. "Farewell, Christine." With an inclination of his head to Erik, he strolled purposefully down the hall. Christine and Erik waiting in silence for a moment, until the sound of the front door closing echoed off the walls.

Erik marched off without a word.

۞

"I don't understand why he didn't tell me," Christine murmured, inattentively watching her reflection in the mirror. Edith worked on the laces of her gown, clucking with displeasure.

"He's kept to himself his entire life, Christine," she said reproachfully. "You can't expect him to open up right away. I imagine letting you in this far has been the hardest thing he's ever had to do."

"I can recall a few other instances," Christine whispered to herself, so her companion wouldn't hear. She stepped obediently out of the gown, and Edith started on her corset.

"I'll finish that." Erik had come in silently, a talent that unnerved Christine a great deal. "You may leave, Edith."

With a stern look at Christine, and a shake of the head for Erik, she left, closing the door behind her. Erik stepped forward, his nimble fingers making quick work of the ties.

"Please don't be angry," Christine said meekly. "I didn't mean what I said earlier."

The corset slipped away. "I am sure the Comte was a great comfort to you."

"You know he is a dear friend to me, and nothing more," she replied in a hurt tone, turning around to face him. "I _do_ care about him, and I worry about him. But I do not love him as I used to."

Erik's eyes were burning. "You certainly do not love his as a _brother_."

"Do not presume to tell me whom I do or do not love!" She stepped away from him, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "How can you still envy him, after all this time?" She held out her hand and waved the ring so it glittered in the lamplight. "After this?"

Erik watched her coldly. "It is merely a ring, Christine."

Her face fell, all irritation and resentment vanishing. "If that is all it means to you, perhaps this was a mistake." She held her chin high, furious at herself for the moisture in her eyes. "I am going to bed." She turned on her heel, and climbed onto the mattress in silence.

"Christine," Erik said, brokenly. She did not reply. Turning on her side, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

۞

At first, Erik thought he was dreaming. The form in front of the mirror was so glowingly pale, and seemed to float just above the ground. A filmy white skirt quivered around long, slender legs, and graceful arms were wrapped around the figure's middle.

Some unknown sound had awoken him, and he had instinctively reached out to find the other side of the bed empty. He sat up, his eyes still blurred by sleep. Slowly, they began to clear, and he realized the silhouette was Christine.

She had pulled the fabric of her chemise tight around her stomach, and was examining the effect in the mirror. The abnormal shine of her cheeks revealed that she had been, or still was, crying, the tears leaving gleaming trails on her skin. She was so preoccupied in whatever she was looking at that she didn't notice he had gotten up and was standing just out of the mirror's view, watching her.

She brought up a hand and held it on her abdomen.

"_Christ_," Erik cried in a strangled tone, and she whirled around, the chemise falling loosely to her sides. Shadows played across her face as it went through a series of expressions; shock, anger, confusion.

Erik moved forward tentatively. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Goddamn it, Christine, you could have said something."

She opened her mouth as if to do just that, but instead let out a heart wrenching sob and covered her face with her hands. Erik reached out and pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head and groaning into her hair. "I've made a complete ass of myself," he said remorsefully.

However, her clinging hands were very reassuring. He bent down to kiss her head again, but she turned her face up so he kissed her lips instead. The kiss went on for some time, until he pulled away and asked, "How long have you known?"

"I don't," she said, with a hiccupping laugh. "But I'm making an educated guess…" She smiled ruefully.

Hesitantly, Erik placed a hand over her front, his brow furrowing as he held it there. "A child," he whispered, pronouncing the word with a careful tongue, as though it would set off a hidden alarm. He felt a strange tingling build up in his stomach as the enormity of the situation sunk in—not a bad tingling, though it gave him the distinct impression that he was about to explode. He looked at Christine.

It was as though something had melted away, the change in his eyes was so great. The wonder of the unknown summoned almost a childish fear to his features, dulling the sharpness of his gaze and exposing the tenderness his set lips always tried to hide. "This does not improve the current state of affairs," he murmured. "Christine, you are in serious danger already; the duty you have—_we_ have—to this child can only make things more difficult."

"You could say you're happy for us, at least," Christine demurred.

With a bark of laughter, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her soundly. "I am very happy for us, Christine," he said against her lips. She smiled, and reached up to caress his right cheek—his _deformed_ cheek.

"What is it?" She asked worriedly, as his countenance darkened.

"Christine—the baby's face, could it be…" He stared at her, horror spreading through him like wildfire. "My face," he said hoarsely.

"Erik, I will love our child for _being_ our child, not for having perfect skin or delicate hands, or dainty feet. Love is all a child needs." She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. Then, in a much more forceful tone, she added, "And if anyone does _not_ love it, they will answer to _me_."

Erik stared at her in astonishment, but the foreign aggressiveness soon subsided, and she relaxed again. "Our child," she sighed, smiling up at him.

He carried her to bed.

۞

**Author's Note: **'Lo all, hope you enjoyed the chapter! Just a note, can't believe I forgot to mention this last chapter, or the chapter before that. I saw the live theatrical production of _Phantom_ this summer, here in Vancouver! For those of you who've seen the play, KJAHFKJSHADGKJSDBGG. And for those of you who haven't, GOAJDHFKAJDH GO NOW! I didn't think it could make me cry since I'd seen the movie and read the book, etc. But when the actor who played Erik (John Cudia, also played the lead in _Les Miserables_ and _West Side Story_) came out for his bow I was blubbering like a seal's fat. I actually liked Cudia better than Butler (but I still adore Butler a ton, don't hit me!). It was absolutely magnetically and astoundingly brilliant. Do not hesitate to go if you ever get the chance.


	13. Astray

۞

_**Chapter Twelve:**_

_Astray_

۞

Erik stared down at the ivory keys beneath his fingers in surprise, almost as though he had forgotten they were there. The captivating tones of his music echoed away in the vastness of the ballroom, the fog in his mind clearing with it. Christine's assertive voice seemed to cut clean through the clouds, like a startling wind.

"I would like to stop for the day." Her mouth was set, her eyes wide and innocent. One hand rested near her abdomen, as it usually did recently, while the other reached out and touched his shoulder. It was the barest of caresses, but in his senses' weakened state he was nearly overcome by it.

"Are you alright?" He twisted his torso around and gave a betraying glance to her middle.

"Yes," she replied, with a fond smile at his concern. "I only wonder…"

He moved over as she settled down beside him, now immensely curious. They had never paused in a lesson, much less _stopped _one all together. Her eyes shined, with what he was not certain, as she looked up at him.

"I only wonder if perhaps we should not be having these lessons."

His brow furrowed. "If you would rather we waited until after the child—"

"No, that isn't what I meant," she interrupted, gazing down at her hands, twisting in her lap. "_Why_ do I continue to train my voice, Erik? We are no longer in an opera; I am no longer a diva. What makes us so sure that I will _need_ my voice, when this is all over and done with?"

Erik inhaled sharply, his hand hovering just above the keys. He had never thought that he would hear Christine sing again, the night beneath the opera, four years earlier. He had been overjoyed, ecstatic to teach her again, to take command of the voice he could now finally perfect. To suggest that they live a life without their music—without the very core of the mutual pursuit that had first brought them together?

"It seems so pointless," she murmured, the assertive tone suddenly gone. "I will never perform again, Erik—we have to face that. We can't spend all our time chasing an nonexistent future."

He watched her face as she spoke, and the moisture in her eyes provoked an unsettling revelation—she had loved the music with him.

You are not alone… 

It had not been _his_ madness; it had been _their_ madness.

"Christine," he said softly, taking her hand, his thumb grazing over her delicate fingers. "Christine."

She seemed almost comforted by his gentle tones, and she leaned into him, sighing gustily.

"There is still a chance, beloved. No mere man could hide your gift." His other arm wrapped around her front, pulling her to him. The intoxicating scent of her hair reminded him for the thousandth time that day how much he loved her.

"But I feel as though we are hiding in the past," she whispered against his chest. "I feel as though we will be drawn into a false sense of security, and the music will blind us from the present, and whatever is after us will strike while we linger in a deceiving oasis—" The growing ardency of her words frightened him more than he was willing to admit. "—And then all we've fought for will be taken away!"

"If the music frightens you that much, we will stop," Erik told her, closing his eyes momentarily. "I will not let you be taken away from me." He brought her hand to his lips, sealing the noble gesture. If he had to make a choice between the music and Christine—well, he had already made it.

"Oh, but it isn't the music," she said earnestly. "It's where the music leads us; where _this_ music leads us. We haven't moved on, Erik." She watched him intently. "If you could change it, if you could take the music and bring it here, to us, instead of taking us to it—Erik, you _must_."

"Christine, I cannot change my music," he muttered hoarsely, averting his eyes. "I can only do what my own self tells me, and it speaks the same as it ever did. This," he gestured to the piece resting on the music stand, "is the one thing you cannot reach, nor redeem. It is my life, and you merely wishing it away cannot change my past. You have my present, and my future, but nothing short of diving intervention can change whatever I might have done before now."

She stared at him for the briefest of moments, in such an unrestrained way that Erik had to reach up and readjust his mask to reassure himself. At this, she turned grave. "I love you, Erik." She drew his head down. "And all this time I believed it was _our_ past haunting me."

"I'm sorry?"

She smiled at him. "Oh, Erik, can you not hear yourself? You have moved on. It wasn't _our_ past at all—it was mine."

۞

Christine felt a tingling swell of paternal joy as she observed Seth in his new sailor suit. The boy admired it openly, examining himself from every angle in a mirror twice his size. His jetty black curls peaked out from under the white cap provided, the perfect contrast to the pale colours of the uniform, making his dark eyes—Christine could never seem to tell whether they were brown or grey—appear even more prominent among his already prominent features.

"I think your mama will like it very much," she commented, rising to her feet and stepping up behind him. They were in the parlour, one of the lighter, more cheerful rooms in the manor. The morning sun, spreading through the high windows, brightened the robin's egg blue of the walls. Through said windows one could see the glorious marble fountain, its elegant figures reaching up towards the, for once, clear sky.

"Mama does not much care for fashion," Seth remarked, but he returned the smile Christine had offered with a toothy grin. "Thank you very much, Aunt Christine."

She squeezed his shoulders as he employed the term she had invited him to use. It seemed ridiculously formal to keep referring to her as Madame, and too _in_formal to simply call her by her first name. All the more, it seemed to amuse Erik a great deal. Christine suspected it had something to do with Edith.

The woman in question appeared in the doorway, and announced that M. de la Rue was waiting for them with the carriage.

"Must I go?" Seth asked despondently, turning his wide unambiguous eyes on Christine's already thwarted countenance.

"I will visit you whenever I can, my dear boy. You must remember what M. de la Rue told you—it is not safe for you to come here nowadays. I promise you that you will come back, but

Your mama needs you more than I do right now."

The reference to his mother seemed to persuade him, though he was still unusually solemn as they stepped outside into the cool spring air. Christine could understand that Seth preferred Erik's high standard of living to the shelter he was accustomed to, but it was decidedly strange that he seemed almost afraid to rejoin his only family. He had been away for nearly two months now, and barely seemed to miss the woman who had raised him. In fact, he had seemed so happy without her that it had taken Christine nearly a week to summon the courage that she needed to tell him he had to leave. Erik had reassured her that it was the boy's best interest, what with the danger approaching them.

Brimming with curiosity, she took the boy's limp hand and led him across the plaza. Feeling an irrational twinge of jealousy as Erik lifted the boy onto the driver's seat beside him, she helped herself into the coach and smoothed her skirts distractedly.

She was wearing a walking gown of pale rose silk, setting off her dark hair and eyes—but she felt almost naked. Erik had insisted, and she had not argued, that she should not wear corsets or even waists, until the child was born. The pregnancy would not be visible for another month at least, if her calculations were correct, but she had no problem with taking precautions.

_There is no harm in protecting oneself from that which does not exist_, she had once heard said, and, in this instance, she wholeheartedly agreed.

"How are you?" Erik asked, leaning inside. The question had all but become routine since she had first told him she was pregnant, though the genuine concern in his tone still affected her. She sucked in a breath of surprise, her cloud of thought vanishing. Silent for a moment, she admired his blazing sapphirine eyes, their scattered flecks of gold glittering as he watched her.

"Jealous," she finally replied, in jest. "Seth has the pleasure of your company for a full hour and a half, while I sit here and contemplate the weather."

It was rare for Erik to smile outright, but there was always something among his features that betrayed his amusement. In this case, his eyebrows raised and the gold flecks shone brighter than ever. "I had never thought you to be a jealous woman," he said teasingly.

Christine leaned forward, smirking uncharacteristically. "Then I daresay you know very little pertaining to _all_ women, monsieur." Her mocking disposition quickly melted as Erik gently seized a stray curl and wound it around his finger.

"All the more unfortunate your case, then, madame." With the catlike quickness he possessed, the curl was released and he disappeared to the driver's seat.

Christine leaned back and groaned.

۞

The slums of Plymouth would have goaded pity even from the coldest of hearts. Christine was not cold-hearted. A miserable lump of sympathy and rage rose in her throat, dampening her eyes, as the carriage rattled along the grimy streets.

Though no town could compare to Breast in level of greasiness, the occupants of the dismal back streets of Plymouth related Christine to the place in a way no sailor could ever do. Children, faces covered in filth, limbs awkward and bony from lack of nourishment, played in the streets. Their bare feet, black with dirt and blue with cold, padded along as though they could not feel the hard ground beneath them.

As the pristine carriage passed through their clusters, they stopped their shrieking games and turned with wide eyes to admire the alien luxury. One, a little girl with her scraggly hair bunched up inside a shabby bonnet, reached up for the window that Christine looked out of.

Christine eyed the approaching hand with a strange enthrallment, until she heard the sound of the horses' whip, and the pair of greys sped up, leaving the hand far behind.

As they passed through, Christine's concentration moved from the children to the people who were supposed to be caring for them. Women, aprons stained and doughy flesh bulging, lingered around doorless frames that opened onto the street. They twittered like excited birds, some even knitting grey lumps of tangled wool. As the carriage went by, the twitters sunk to low chirps of curiosity and contempt. Unsettled, Christine pulled the curtain shut until they had gone a ways.

The sad, defeated houses seemed to lean in towards them, as the bright sky overhead was steadily discoloured by smoke spewing from crooked chimneys. But the rays of the sun still burst through, strong as ever, and it was their harsh white light that cast the deadening truth on the people's wretched existence. No alley's shadow was left unexplored, no wrinkle on a face was left concealed, and every gross detail was thrown into focus with cruel accuracy.

_Seth's home, _Christine thought, painfully aware of the good fortune she had possessed, and scarcely deserved, throughout her life. _His home that he so unhappily anticipates returning to…_

"_Mama!_"

Christine thrust her head out the window as Seth jumped from his seat, scrambling off his knees and tearing over the cobblestones. She watched in something akin to horror as the boy bounded up a set of stairs towards the largest building on the street. The overall design of the structure suggested a library, but somehow Christine did not think a domicile of education would last long in such a place.

Erik brought the horses to a stop in front of the steps, but Christine did not wait for him to open her door. She stumbled out just as Seth took hold of a figure just about to descend. At first glance, the hold looked like a loving embrace, but then the form swayed and Christine realized the woman was about to collapse.

"_Damn_." Christine started, not having been aware that Erik had come up behind her. He quickly followed the boy, Christine coming more slowly and cursing her heels. When she finally reached them, the woman was fully reclining on the stone steps, apparently unconscious. Christine could see very little resemblance between Seth and his mother; the woman had flaxen hair in comparison to Seth's black, her face was heart-shaped and her features weak where Seth was all prominence and angles.

Then her eyes fluttered open, and Christine recognized the same indistinct shade, a mixture of brown, green, and grey. "Seth?" She murmured, her voice hoarse. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You fainted," Erik replied curtly. "You are on the steps of the shelter, for, as any sensible person would realize, that is as far as one as sick as yourself would be able to walk without assistance. And, if my suspicions are correct, you have been going out every day since your son has not been here to take care of you. In result, your condition has only worsened."

The woman, who had been initially frightened by Erik's looming figure, now bristled with indignation. "How _dare_ you speak to me in—" She started, but cut off with a screech as Erik lifted her and carried her inside. "You fiend, you—you ruffian—common thug! Release me _at once_!"

Christine took Seth's hand and followed apprehensively, mind buzzing. His mother's accent was educated—even Christine could tell the proper English language from the crude slang they used here—and yet she lived in a shelter. Had Seth not always lived on the streets? Who was his father?

Christine absently observed the back of Erik's head, her thoughts blocking out the protesting shrieks of his luggage. Suddenly, a hideous cold washed over her, and Seth tugged at his hand as she inadvertently tightened her grip.

Who was the father, indeed? 

_You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Erik?_

She had never had reason to doubt Erik's story about how he came across Seth—but now that she mulled over it, was it really so believable? Taking in a boy, simply because he knows how to disguise himself?

Teaching a young girl to sing, simply because she believes in an angel? 

But that was different.

Was it? 

Yes. No. But—!

_There is _no_ reason to doubt him._

And yet…

And yet… 

The shelter was old, musty with age, and reminded Christine of a hospital. Volunteer nurses seemed to glide through the halls, their feet making only the lightest of shuffling sounds as they moved from patient to patient, charity case to charity case. Erik seemed to know exactly where he was going, turning left, and then right, then left again. Seth shoved open one of the many doors lining the hallway, and they all filed in. Erik dropped the woman unceremoniously one of the small cots in the correspondingly small room. There was one other cot, Seth's, presumably, and a small bureau. A desk with two chairs and a bedside table were the only other pieces of furniture in the bare room. Two large windows, only one with curtains, let in the morning sun's acute brilliance.

Christine struggled to control the pity swimming just beneath her countenance, releasing Seth's hand and giving him a pat on the head before he went to his mother's side. The woman had quickly propped herself up into a sitting position, straightening out her plain skirts and glaring at Erik.

"Mama, you are not supposed to go outside—" Seth exclaimed in shrill tones, brow furrowed.

"Hush," she ordered, her voice now sharp and decisive. "I am perfectly able to go for a short walk by myself."

"_Short_ being a bit of an understatement," Erik added acerbically. She refuelled her glare.

"Thank you for returning my son to me, once again, sir. You may leave."

"But Mama—!"

"Seth, please."

"Mama, I must introduce you to my Aunt Christine!"

Christine flushed painfully as Seth enthusiastically pulled her closer, transferring the attentions of his bitter mother to her. The woman's face constricted, and Christine was struck with the fact that this person was not much older than her.

"You have no aunts," she told her son quietly.

"Now I do!" Seth seemed oblivious to the cold seriousness of the room, his smile spreading from ear to ear.

"My apologies, ma'am. It was only to give him something to call me," Christine said meekly, holding out her gloved hand. "We have not been introduced. Christine—" she paused, her eyes flickering surreptitiously towards Erik. "—de la Rue."

"Laura Davies," Laura replied, giving Christine a surprised look as she briefly clasped Christine's silk-covered fingers with her bare ones. Christine assumed it was the last name that startled her. "Your husband has never brought you before," Laura remarked coldly.

"We are only just engaged," Erik cut in, his tone just as cold.

"Indeed? You are fortunate, ma'am." Her mouth twisted in a smile. "Your master is kind enough to marry his whores after they beget a child."

Christine couldn't say how the horrid creature had known, but her face was enflamed with embarrassment and rage. Erik snarled, his form going rigid.

"Do not speak to my fiancé of whoredom, _madam_, when it is your _own_ self that is so well-versed in the area."

"How dare you insult me so," Laura hissed. "You who know nothing of misfortune in your sprawling manner and with your penitent servants!"

"_At least I can afford to care for your son_."

It was a vindictive blow, and the woman recoiled. But as she opened her mouth, preparing her next retaliation, a soft, quivering voice cut through the blazing anger that heated the room.

"Out," Seth commanded. "Get out of my home." His diminutive form, barely reaching Erik's middle, was shaking with indignation and fury. Hate had altered his face beyond recognition, when it had once been wreathed in the kindest smiles.

Christine reached for Erik's hand, and clutched it tightly, but the man took no notice. He was staring down at his pupil, his expression blank. Even she could not read what was beyond its hard exterior.

Then, without even a blink, he turned on his heel and left the room. She rushed after him.

۞

The ride home was made in silence, despite that Erik had let Christine sit up beside him. But for once, the quiet was a comfort, when no words could do justice to their emotions. Christine rested her head on Erik's shoulder, one hand around his arm, and the other positioned over her abdomen. As the countryside passed by, she could not recall ever experiencing such a sense of deep remorseful tranquility. She felt as though the entire world was at war around her, but she was safe exactly here, if she would only stay perfectly still.

Erik would move his gaze from the road to her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation and his lips set in a frown.

By the time they reached the house, it was early afternoon, and the sky had lazy clouds drifting over and around the sun. It was cool and shaded one moment, warm and bright the next.

Weary and hollow-eyed, the two companions trudged blindly inside.

"You mustn't think it was your fault," Christine said, as they stood there uselessly.

"Wasn't it?" Erik asked, his posture radiating the intensity he no longer cared to voice.

"Both of you said…things. But she was the one who spoke first. Seth chose a side. He loves his mother, as horrid as she is." Christine stepped forward and buried her face in Erik's shirt. "I think he loved us too—only a little bit less." She clamped her lips shut and closed her eyes as she felt tears swell up behind their lids.

"Will our child hate us so, Christine?" He folded his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Never," she replied fiercely, tilting her head up invitingly. "Our child will love us, and protect us as fervently as Seth did his mother."

Erik accepted the invitation.

۞

"What do you mean, _he is gone_?"

Raoul jumped up from his chair, the coffee he had been about to drink falling from his flaccid grip and spreading across the carpet.

"M. Deniau is not in his quarters—no one has seen him since last night, monsieur." The footman shifted his weight from left to right nervously.

"Last night? How—who—where in _hell_ has he gone?" Raoul demanded, a numbing fear slipping over his senses.

"No one knows, monsieur."

"_Then find out!_"

"Yes, monsieur!" The young man vanished through the door, and Raoul collapsed back into his seat.

_Think, man, think! _The Comte tried desperately to focus his thoughts, but an image of Christine, running from some unknown foe, kept floating to the surface of his mind.

_Deniau has left—either Bonheur has given up, or is about to strike._

There was no way to get a warning to England fast enough, not if Deniau had been gone the whole night. Christine and Erik would be on their guards, of course, but a cautious mind-set was nothing against a madman.

But, on the other hand, Erik had been exactly that for nearly all his life.

How is it that you are always offending men of the same ilk, Chagny? Scheming, ingenious, utterly insane…?

Trust in Christine's protector. He will take care of her.

Of course—the infamous Phantom, Christine's ever-loving angel and saviour, would rescue her from all evil, even when the evil was the Angel himself.

_"Take her—forget me, forget all of this…"_

Forget, indeed! Raoul's mind cried bitterly, as his dark thoughts fed the jealousy festering in the pit of his stomach. Everything she had done was exactly contradicting the man's heartbroken command. The way Christine had glowed with health after barely a week of his company; the way she had reached for Erik when she was told she had to flee the country; the way she was so quick to forgive him for manhandling her; the way she caressed his future child, still growing in her womb…

He knew—he knew!—there would be no other love for him. Christine's face was enshrined on his heart, the only woman who could ever understand what he had been through, for she had shared it all…

…all but the ugliness of losing her.

No, in that field she had come out the winner. Raoul's direst wish was that he could even begin to fathom the connection Christine felt with her Erik, that Raoul could begin to know what they had shared that could possibly make their bonds stronger than hers and Raoul's.

But, no! How could Erik be her saviour, when it was Raoul who had come to her in her darkest hour, when she had been most in need of comfort, and it had been Raoul who had promised to guard her always! Erik had demanded her presence, where Raoul had pleaded for his own.

_And yet…_

And yet she found her last resting place, so to speak, in this murderer and deceiver of the highest degree.

So which was it? The eyes of love are blind, or the eyes of love see the good in a thing others believe entirely evil?

Christine must be blind to Erik's faults, but still she had accepted and forgiven them.

Erik had been blinded by the hate he had received without respite, and been driven mad by it.

The mob that had ravaged the Phantom's home in the catacombs, the entirety of persons Erik had encountered throughout his life, had been blinded by outward appearances, blinded by the brainwashing cruelty of common beliefs and immoral viewpoints.

Nicolas Bonheur was blinded by rage for his father, so that he could not see past his own desires and take in the good in the world around him.

And now Raoul was blinded, by jealousy and hurt, but most of all love for the one woman he had had and now could never have—

—For Christine was the only one that had not succumbed to the weaknesses of deficient mortals, the vanity of the world, and the incessant blinding of humanity. She had seen past wickedness and found holiness—a feat unequalled to this day.

Raoul dropped his head in his hands, and wept for the untouchable beauty of her. And yet, now that he understood, he knew he could move past the love, to respect and understanding, as she had moved on with a man who could understand her, respect her, and love her more than Raoul could ever have.

Erik had known in a moment all of what had taken Raoul five years to discover, known it from the second the masked, tormented creature had laid eyes on the tiny corps girl praying for her father and heard her sweet voice.

Christine had sought Erik out because within him she found an awareness of herself that she had never before known, an identity, when she had been lost. Raoul had not comforted her after her father's death, that had been Erik, and Raoul had left her for whiskey when Erik had been drying her tears for her dead child that she had never allowed herself to shed.

_Christine…Christine…_

Such a gentle, delicate woman, influencing so many with a mere look or gesture.

A saint.

…

Where was Deniau?

۞

This time, they were both awake, lying together in the darkness. Christine propped herself up on her elbow, her dark tresses tumbling down over Erik's face—unmasked face—as they spoke of things rarely worded, reassuring each other of everything they did not always bother to say.

"What shall we name him?" Christine asked dreamily, her fingers running lightly over Erik's chest. He grabbed her hand as it hovered above his heart, and brought each finger to his lips.

"Her," he corrected absently, and Christine smiled. "And I had not thought of a name…"

"Antoinette," she murmured, "Or Robert, perhaps…"

"Such common names," Erik scorned, chuckling at her offended look. "And it is a girl. Isabel," he said decidedly. "Maybe Nadine."

'Nadine', Christine mouthed, nodding slowly. Then, timidly, she asked, "If it is a boy, will you be disappointed?"

"If it is human, I will be ecstatic, my dear."

With a sigh of contentment, she leant down and kissed him, at first only a grazing of his lips, but then he brought his arms down around the small of her back and she was pressed against him.

Flipping her onto her back, Erik's lips made their way from her jaw line, down her neck and between her breasts, until he reached her middle and covered it with kisses. She laughed, though her skin was heated with lust, and let her hands travel across his broad shoulders and her nails dig into his arms as his mouth traveled lower.

They heard the sound at exactly the same time, both of them stiffening as they whispered each other's names in warning. Again it came, the crash of a shattering windowpane, somewhere in the room below them, this time accompanied by a female's shriek.

"Edith!" Christine cried.

With a string of curses, Erik flung the blanket off, grabbing his breeches as he stumbled towards the door.

Christine sat bolt upright in the bed, watching him in dreadful fascination. Then, suddenly, the spell was broken and she untangled herself from the sheets, and ran after him. "Erik, wait," she pleaded.

He turned to her, his body practically screaming in wanton as she rushed towards him, naked, her eyes fraught with worry. He caught her around the waist and gave her a bruising embrace. "Stay here," he ordered. "Wait for me." When she hesitated, he continued with growing ardour, "Promise me you'll stay here, no matter what you hear!"

"I promise," she choked out.

A kiss that was all tooth and blood, and he left her there, slamming the door behind him.

۞

The house was pitch black, save the weak light of the moon. Erik moved on instinct, his eyes refusing to adjust to the dark. The room just below them—one of the many sitting rooms, nothing singularly impressive or meaningful about it—was one of the few rooms with a connection to the servants' quarters. It was unlikely that the scream had been Edith's—she had her own room, and it could have been any number of the maids his aunt had hired.

But Edith was there when he entered the room, her candle shaking as she tried to steady her hands, examining the scattered glass and broken window. Her eyes were wide, and the lines of age on her face seemed deeper than ever in the shadows of the flame she held.

"Edith, what's happened—the scream—" Erik panted, trying to quell the nausea in his stomach.

"One of the maids was just returning, and someone threw a rock—" She held up a grey, indefinable shape in her palm, "—through the window as she was crossing the room. I've sent her to bed."

"A rock…?" Erik asked weakly.

"A rock," his aunt confirmed grimly, but there was something else…

"Why would someone come all this way, just to vandalise one window?" Erik demanded, as though the old woman might know the answer.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice quivering.

A broken window in the middle of the night…a rock…disturbing his and Christine's—moment…he had come all the way downstairs for a broken window.

His stomach churned, his head pounded, his throat tightened…something wasn't right.

All the way downstairs, for a window.

All the way downstairs.

Christine, upstairs, was trembling with fear and the curse of not knowing.

All the way downstairs.

Christine, upstairs.

Downstairs, upstairs.

All this way—for a window?

Christine.

"Christine!"

The echo of his bare feet slapping against marble seemed to taunt him as he sprinted back the way he had come, his ears roaring. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he gasped in sharply for breath that would not come.

Black spots appeared in front of his eyes, but still he did not slow, as terror flooded his veins and unknown fingers, covered in freezing slime, ran over his flesh.

Another female's scream, from upstairs—and there was only one person upstairs.

And not a blank scream, not one of paralysed terror—"Erik!" The voice screeched, reverberating in his head, his chest, his heart…

His throat was like sandpaper as he reached the door, closed, as he had left it.

_"Promise me you'll stay here…!"_

Wood splintered and crackled as he kicked it open, not bothering with the door handle.

The room was perfectly silent and undisturbed, save for the balcony doors, forced wide open. Their curtains fluttered lightly in the breeze, and his compositions from the last month, resting on the piano, cut through the air and skidded along the floor.

There was no one there.

۞

**Author's Note: **Sorry again for the lack of RR! School really gets in the way; I'm running for schoolboard president and extending the summer to forever. Just running out the door now, so a quick thank you to all you beautiful people who read and gi'me feedback!


	14. Vengeance

۞

_**Chapter Thirteen:**_

_Vengeance_

۞

_Christine pushed herself back through the pillows on the bed, until she was leaning only against the headboard, her hands trembling as they pulled the blankets up over her body._

_Erik's footsteps had long since faded, but she could hear the faint trails of his voice coming up through the floorboards. It was little comfort, but comfort nonetheless._

Later, she could not say which came first—her scream, or the horrible snap of wood as the balcony doors swung open to welcome in the night. Her lips formed the first word that came to her mind, the word that was never left her thoughts; the word that summoned her most heartfelt desires…

_Erik._

_And then icy, unfamiliar hands seized her bare skin, dragging her from her warm sanctuary. She writhed and struggled, but bony fingers held her in a grip of stone. A shadow leaned over her, and a cloth was pressed over her mouth as she gasped for air._

_She saw no more._

۞

When no word arrived from England that night, and no message had come the following morning, Raoul had begun to relax. Returning to Paris had been good for him, as he found comfort in his childhood home. The Chagny home in France's capital had lost none of its magnificence, and had remained untouched by the Commune's wrath.

Perhaps it was all finally over; perhaps Bonheur had suddenly seen the light, and found a purpose somewhere in his wretched existence. Perhaps Raoul would be left alone to find his peace of mind, and nurse his smarting wounds, before another family enemy sought to bring the Chagny legacy to ruins…

In such a way this hope made Raoul's breathing easier, and for one precious hour that day he revelled in the giddiness it graciously instilled.

"A visitor for you, monsieur."

"Tell them I am not receiving today."

"The man says it is urgent, monsieur."

Raoul sat up and looked thoughtfully at the new butler, now that Deniau had left them. "Not—"

"This is no time for social decorum, idiot; _get out of the way_."

Raoul started and leapt to his feet—there was no mistaking that voice.

"But his voice filled my spirit with…" 

_Mortal terror, _the Comte finished bitterly. But any resentment vanished as he realized the implications of Erik, in France. Erik, who now stood before him dishevelled and quivering with rage, the haunted shadow in his eyes speaking louder than words.

And Raoul knew there would be no peace of mind for him just yet.

For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, rivals sizing one another up. The contrast was drastic; Raoul, with his fair hair and temperate grey-green eyes, lean but still strong, emotions simple and clear across his face; and Erik, his blazing cerulean gaze boring a hole in Raoul's chest, the infamous mask gleaming, spotless—his entire form shaking with effort to keep his feelings at bay.

"She's gone," the second man finally blurted out. "Taken."

Raoul did not inquire further—his new understanding helped him see the pain it caused Erik to come to another man for help, and the pain of knowing he had failed to protect the one thing he loved. The Comte let out a long, calming breath. "Then we must find her," he replied. "Deniau disappeared the night before last. Bonheur _is_ preparing for the final confrontation."

Erik opened his mouth, and then seemed to think better of it. He strode over to the cabinet and withdrew the bottle of whiskey. With a wary glance at Raoul, he poured a glass for himself. Raoul flushed with shame, realizing Christine must have told Erik of his former weakness.

He did not ask for a glass, nor did Erik offer one. They took seats directly across from one another, still opposing forces, unwillingly working together.

"His father's manor—it's been abandoned for years," Erik suggested, downing the honey-coloured liquid in his glass absently.

"Bought, less than six months ago. It's private property." Raoul rubbed his temples in agitation. "No, he'd go somewhere more…personal. He _wants_ me to find him."

"_Damn_," Erik muttered. "Damn, damn, damn—"

Raoul drifted into thought, Erik's irate cursing fading as his concentration intensified.

۞

"You are yet only a boy, brother, and you will not understand the cruelties of the world for some time," Philippe had said, placing a comforting hand on Raoul's shoulder. The paleness of the new Comte's skin against Raoul's black mourning clothes was a harsh blow. Raoul had not realized just how frail the death of his father had made Philippe.

"And that is exactly why you must promise me not to trust anyone but yourself, now that you are the direct heir to the Chagny title after I follow in the steps of father. He was a great man, but human. He made our family many enemies, Raoul."

"But why would anyone want to hurt us? Father is dead now. We have done nothing wrong."

Philippe gave Raoul a long, grave look. "Because, my boy, Death has robbed them of their chance for revenge. They see us as their new prey—the blood we share with father is both a blessing and a curse."

"But who are 'they'? You have yet to tell me that, brother."

"You are too young to know the details. One day I will reveal all of our family's history to you, but today I only mean to caution you. You cannot tell these men apart from other people, Raoul; they appear to be just like you or I. The difference is here," he gestured to his chest. "These men will stop at nothing to hurt you. They know not the principles of a gentleman, and they will strike in the very heart of you, if they so chose. They will strike in your very home—the one place you believed to be safe will in fact be the area you should take most care in."

Raoul swallowed nervously. "But our home is secure."

"No place is secure!" Philippe bellowed, then again lowered his voice to the grim whisper used before. "That is something you must understand, brother. No place is safe for you when you have enemies. No place can keep you away from danger. There is no one—" He paused, leaning back, and gave Raoul a wary look as though he suspected his younger brother of the same threat he had just been describing.

"There is no one," he continued, "And nowhere. They will always know more than you suspect, and always see what you keep out of sight. When you seek to find your enemies, Raoul, you only have to look inside your own borders. Then you will find them, make no mistake!"

۞

"Nice."

"Perhaps he thought to—" Erik faltered mid-speech, and stared at Raoul.

"Nice," the younger man repeated, his eyes alight. "That is where they are!"

"How the hell—how do you know?"

Raoul jumped to his feet and began pacing excitedly. "The Chagny residence, in Nice. It is exactly the sort of thing Bonheur would do, too—strike in a place personal to us both, as he must know about you somehow—Nice is your home…But in my house, where Deniau spied on us, and where Bonheur himself came when we thought the Commune was our adversary."

Erik had now risen as well, and was watching Raoul with narrowed eyes.

"We must go at once," Raoul cried, his brow set in determination.

"I would think you insane, Chagny, if you didn't sound so bloody right."

One woman has brought the two bitterest enemies together, Erik thought in grim amusement as he followed the Comte out of the room. Now if only we can bring ourselves to her.

۞

"Charming weather, today."

"As always in this city, sir."

"Lady Abraham was quite delightful for luncheon, didn't you think so?"

"To be sure, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Yes, father."

"And stop agreeing with me."

"Yes—er, no, father."

Dion picked irritably at his dinner, trying to squash the unusual feeling of restlessness that had been bothering him the entire day. Lady Abraham's visit had been of no help; she could make a chair snore, if she set her mind to it.

His father the Baron scooped food into his mouth between each bland comment, never a hair of his curling white mustache falling out of place.

"I thought the weather was quite pleasant today."

"So you said, father."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Hmph."

Dion nearly shouted in relief when the doorbell chimed throughout the halls. Leaping up from his seat, he said quickly, "I'll just get that, shall I?"

"Nonsense, the butler can—"

"Poor man's got a bad back, I'll—er—assist him." He darted out of the room before his father could raise another objection.

Dion was generally an optimistic man. It was this trait that made him such enjoyable company, and that made the otherwise dull famille Marchand popular in Nice. He always managed to cheer one up, and knew exactly when to tell a joke, or when not to tell one. He had a way with words that got you nodding and smiling dumbly in agreement.

But even the most sanguine of men would have thought the worse when they saw the haggard faces of the Comte de Chagny and Erik de la Rue, trying to push past the alarmed, bleating servant blocking the doorway. The first image that crossed Dion's mind was one of a casket, and inside a ghostly pale woman of exquisite, calm beauty, dark curls spreading like a fan around her face…

But, no—impossible…

"Get a hold of yourself, man, this is no time to succumb to the vapours."

The rough, critical voice of his teacher brought the colour back into the young noble's countenance. He groped for words. "Where—how—why—"

"All in good time, monsieur," Raoul supplied vaguely, running a hand through his hair. "We must move quickly—a life is at stake here."

Dion grimaced in apprehension. "Christine…where is she?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Kidnapped; taken hostage by—"

"But the Commune's days of power are over," Dion cut in desperately, wringing his hands. "And how could they find her in England, why would they still search…?"

"Because it is not the Commune," Erik said, annoyance sharpening his tone. "Please—my friend—we must make haste. Let us sit down and refresh ourselves, and we can inform you of our current…situation."

"Of course," Dion replied shakily. He turned and headed towards the library. "This way, if you please."

۞

Dion studied the two solemn faces before him pensively. "How can you be certain this man, Bonheur, would take her there?"

"We can't," Raoul said after a moment's hesitation. "But I can feel it, I know this is what he would do. He wouldn't hide her away; it's me he wants. She's only a lure."

Erik's expression said without words what he thought of referring to Christine as 'only' something, but he didn't speak. Dion was quite amazed at the control Erik was showing—when he had last seen him with the Comte, his teacher had been radiating dislike—now he seemed to almost respect him.

"Will three men be enough to overpower him and his—er—colleagues?"

This time, Erik answered. "Men like Bonheur work alone. My guess is there will be no large number of guards, or colleagues, as you so delicately put it. He wants to rid himself of his enemies by himself."

Dion sighed. "I don't understand why we can't just get the police to—"

"No!" Raoul and Erik exclaimed in unison, their eyes wide.

"Very well," Dion grumbled. "What do we need?"

"Firearms," Erik said. He pulled out his own pistol for the others to see. "I only took one when I left England."

"I didn't think to bring any," Raoul confessed.

Dion stood and went to the fireplace, taking a small chest from the mantle and bringing it back to the low table they sat around. He carefully lifted the lid and withdrew three finely crafted colts, each with the initials 'R.M.' engraved into them. "My father's," Dion said. With a choked voice, he added, "Try not to lose them."

Dion took two and Raoul took one, already having his rapier at his side, which he admitted he was better with. Armed sufficiently, they both looked at Erik with interest.

"I only need the one," he murmured, pulling back his cape. A coil of rope was attached to his belt. Raoul found himself unable to look away, dread washing over him for the briefest moment. Dion only looked in confusion.

"A rope? What are you going to do with a rope?"

Erik gave the boy a steady look, and Raoul replied for him. "More than either of us, you can be sure of that."

۞

Only the slowly sinking rays of the sun lighted the house as the three men approached it. The gates were open. Reining their horses just outside, they approached the front door with caution.

The place was silent. Dead silent, Erik thought darkly, and then shook it off. The place was situated almost directly on the beach, like Erik's old home had been, and the gardens had only low growing plants so one could see the horizon without difficulty.

The sunset was a stunning combination of amber, rose, and copper, reflecting off the ocean so perfectly you could hardly tell where the sky ended and the water began. The few scattered clouds seemed to catch fire in the brilliance of the colour. They hung unmoving in the windless sky, like smudges in an otherwise perfect painting.

Erik glanced at his companions. Beads of sweat were rolling slowly down Dion's forehead, and Erik was suddenly struck by how young the boy was.

Not even twenty! Erik groaned inwardly. God save him, what have I brought him into?

There might be few men, but they would be accomplished fighters—or killers. Dion was a spoiled aristocrat, with the best intentions. The best intentions did not help you shoot a gun or wield a sword.

While Raoul appeared much more composed, there was a strange pain in his eyes. Regret—for Dion? Christine?

Christine. He could sense her presence now, and he knew Raoul had been right. She was here, somewhere, in this house…in what condition, Erik dared not reflect on. Her captor was mad, and without scruples—Christine had been wearing nothing when she was taken.

Erik growled low in his throat, and his companions' heads snapped towards him. They gaped at each other for a moment, three men, utterly different, united under one banner for yet another dissimilar figure.

An innocent heir, a tormented count, a murdering composer, and a…

But what was Christine, other than herself?

Vigilantly they advanced towards the door. Eyeing it, Raoul inquired sarcastically, "Shall we knock?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. Reaching forward, he pressed down the latch and stepped inside. "No."

"That was too easy," Dion muttered. The foyer was grey and empty. No candles were lit, but the natural light from outside gave them enough illumination to see clearly. The quiet cracked and buzzed, whining in the three men's ears like an insect. The tension was thicker than mud.

"Where would he keep her?" Erik asked, his tone hushed as he peered into the gloom.

Personal…your own borders…the one place… "My chambers," Raoul muttered. "Where I would sleep, unprotected."

Erik nodded, then abruptly stiffened.

"What is it?" Dion asked tremulously.

"Stay here."

Raoul placed one hand against Dion's chest and shoved, pushing them both back against the door. Erik vanished in a flourish of black fabric.

"Don't speak," Raoul hissed.

A silhouette appeared at the entrance of one of the attaching corridors. The man's outline betrayed his squat, swarthy build. The form paused for a moment, and then Raoul could almost feel the figure's beady eyes come to rest on him.

"Hey!" The man grunted in anger and surprise. His nasal voice cut through the suffocating silence as a blade would flesh. "What—"

Dion nearly cried out as a great bat-like figure swooped up over the man, seemingly out of nowhere. The brute didn't even have time to cry out, as his flabby fingers fumbled at his throat. The black shape leaned forward, almost appearing to enjoy his suffering. Then the grating noise from the back of his throat cut off, and he collapsed. The great shadow subsided, and suddenly Dion saw Erik there instead.

In that moment, Dion knew his teacher's past. Like a demon, he thought in horrified awe, rising up from…

"Move."

They crept up the stairs, hardly daring to breath; Raoul at the front, Dion in the middle, and Erik at the back, fondling his lasso in a way that made Dion shudder inwardly. Every step he took upwards had yet another after it, as the drab walls seemed to creep closer about him. Dust drifted in and out of the light, clogging his senses. The pistol in his hand was suddenly weighing him down, as his fingers played unfamiliarly at the trigger.

But when they did reach the landing, a nauseating dread filled him that made his feet long for another stair to climb, another thug to appear out of the shadowed halls, anything to interfere with them and that door…

_Please, more time…_

More time to do what?

_Rot_.

۞

The rope used to tie her hands to the bedpost bit deep in Christine's wrists. It wound around the bars of the footboard in a figure eight, pressing her arms together at an unnatural angle. If she tried to wriggle one hand out of its bonds, the rope would tighten around the other, and the searing pain of the threads digging into her broken skin forced her to stop. The plain shift she had been supplied with did nothing to subtract from her horrible feeling of exposure, being too short to cover her ankles and too tight over her breasts.

Her eyes burned even in the shade of dusk, tears mingling with terror.

And his hands were still everywhere.

Slithering, clawing, piercing hands that spread over all of her, though they did not move. Everything about him was just like his touch: cold and merciless. Grey eyes that lingered where a gentleman's would not dare tread, as his imposing height was used to tower over her like a gargoyle.

When Erik had been the subject of her nightmares, the one who stalked her just out of sight, she feared his blazing wrath and scorching gaze. This man was the opposite, ice and cool calculation.

And so she shook in the humid, stifling air, her child the only thing that kept her from welcoming a faint—

—Her child that he had dared to touch.

He had asked her to call him Nicolas, and she dared not refuse.

"They are here." She stepped out of her deadened trance and looked over at Deniau. His aquiline features twisted in a leer as she met his eyes, and she felt his hands on her now too, when he had pulled her from her home as easy as one plucking a weed from their garden. She knew exactly what he did this for. It shone in his eyes like silver; greed.

Nicolas smiled in sickening glee. Turning to Christine, he said brightly, "Now, my dear, perhaps you will smile for me. Your husband has come to rescue you."

"Raoul is not my husband," she repeated stubbornly, as she had whenever he mentioned him. But her heart had leapt. They found me—oh, thank God, thank heaven, they have found me…

He laughed, as he did whenever she told him. "No matter, he loves you still. See how he and his friends march so boldly into danger?" He paused and looked at her in mocking pensiveness. "Ah," he continued softly. "I forgot—you are tied to the bed."

"His friends?" Christine asked feebly, trying to ignore the stinging rope.

"Yes. That fop of a Baron's son—"

_Dion._ Christine's blood pounded in her ears.

"—And your dear friend, M. de la Rue. I have researched him quite a bit, my dear—I'm simply dying to see what's behind that mask."

_Erik!_

۞

There was another guard to take care of, just outside the door. They had been instructed not to harm the Comte, and so the man shifted uneasily when Raoul came forward, rapier drawn.

"Move aside."

The man glanced back at Erik and Dion, and shrugged his shoulders hesitantly. Erik made clean work of him, and he slid down onto the floor with hardly any sound.

And then the most heavenly sound reached their ears. Inside, two people were talking—a man—Bonheur, Raoul said—and Christine. Her light, clear voice was now murky and hoarse, but it was unmistakeable.

Erik's heart soared.

"She's alive," Dion whispered. "Mon dieu, she's alive."

"He wouldn't kill her," Erik hissed back irritably, though he was no less relieved than the younger boy. "She's too valuable to him alive."

"What the hell are we doing standing out here chatting?" Raoul interrupted.

And then the door opened.

The curtains had been pulled back in the bedroom only, allowing the full effect of the sun to pour in. When the three men entered, the first thing they saw was the bed, the centrepiece of the room, and the ashen form seated on the bench at its foot.

Only once before had Erik seen her this miserably beautiful—in a wedding dress, wading knee deep into freezing water as she gave away her life to save another. Now it was entirely different, because she was his to lose, and it was his form that she sought first before the others.

"I'm alright," she said after a moment, her lips struggling for words. "He's—Deniau's behind you, and he's at the window."

Of course they knew whom she meant. He stepped into view, lips curved in relaxation, eyes glimmering like steel.

"Welcome, gentlemen. I confess, I was not expecting so many of you…" Bonheur looked pointedly at Dion, and then continued nonchalantly, "But a woman can hold the key to more than one man's heart."

"Spare us the poetic phrases," Erik snarled. "We did not—"

"Patience, monsieur, patience!" Bonheur cut in, his casual behaviour putting all three men on alert. "It is irrationality that often gets us places we would rather not go. My associate behind you could tell you that."

Erik threw the smirking Deniau a contemptuous glance.

"Though," Bonheur added, "I must admit that he planned out the kidnapped exceptionally. You have him to thank, M. de la Rue, for the loss of your delectable mistress—or, perhaps something more…?" He reached down and wrapped his fingers around her arm, brutally tugging it free.

Christine cried out, then bit her lip as several tears slipped down over her blanched cheeks.

Bonheur admired the engagement ring on her finger. "She tells me she is no longer married to our Comte," he remarked with indifference. "How quickly she finds a new interest, non?"

Erik had gone completely rigid, his eyes burning with azure flames. His lip curled at the last comment. "Your topic of conversation tires me, monsieur."

"Indeed? Well, perhaps I can arrange for something more suiting a man of action like yourself…Deniau," Bonheur gave a short nod to the man standing in the corner, who reached into his coat.

All at once, Erik was upon him, the catgut falling down around the man's head and swiftly tightening—but not before a shot was fired.

The butler's eyes widened, his body lurched, and his face slowly darkened. Everyone in the room was utterly still as the man buckled at the knees, then fell flat on his face.

Erik turned back, panting, an inhuman rage now quivering in his limbs. He glanced around the room, and everyone followed his example.

Dion blinked slowly, and at once the uncertainty was penetrated. His previously sharp gaze had clouded over, and he raised a quivering hand to his breast. Raoul stumbled forward in shock, grabbing hold of the boy's shoulders and holding him to his chest as Dion's legs went limp. Raoul slowly lowered him to the ground, pulling back his coat.

A crimson stain blossomed just above Dion's stomach, like a rose reacting to the sun. Raoul looked away, covering it.

"Am I…?" Dion sputtered, as red frothed at the corners of his mouth. Christine let out a hacking sob in the deathly silence that followed his question, and then covered her face with a hand.

Raoul swallowed, nodding slowly.

"Ah," Dion whispered, understanding. Then his eyes glassed over entirely. With a heaving last breath, his chest stilled, and he died.

۞

Raoul got to his feet, breathing heavily. Erik was staring at his student's body in horrified fascination, and Christine's eyes were now averted upwards, her mouth moving in prayer.

Bonheur studied Dion's corpse in frigid shrewdness, all the sadistic glee abruptly vanishing. "I hope that met your standards, M. de la Rue," he said finally.

"You're the devil," Christine said, her voice broken.

"Possibly," Bonheur countered.

The four stood there, staring at each other blankly. Raoul's wide eyes were locked with Bonheur's narrowed ones, and Erik's desperately found Christine's. Two bodies already littered the floor, and the boiling room reeked of blood and death.

The word echoed in each of their heads, a haunting chant—

_Death, death, death…_

Then some hidden signal passed from Raoul to Erik, and both men lunged at once.

Two gunshots rang out, mixing with Christine's scream.

Raoul and Bonheur were fighting for control of the gun, both of Raoul's hands squeezing around Bonheur's forearm, as he struggled to maintain his grip on his weapon. Sweat broke out on Raoul's forehead, and for once Bonheur's face betrayed his emotions. Fear.

But Christine had not registered Raoul's position, or his struggle with the enemy. She saw only the figure that staggered backwards, hand holding his side. Erik's lips went white, and he looked over at Christine in mild surprise.

"No," she said hoarsely, rejecting the image, pulling back inside herself. What she saw wasn't real. It was another of Bonheur's tricks, another lie…

"Christine." Erik suddenly crumpled against the wall, his hand clinging to it to steady himself. Slowly, achingly slowly, he slid down to the floor, a faint red streak following just after.

Her lungs were contracting, hot tears soaking her face as she tried to speak. Her lips opened and closed noiselessly. The rest of her body seemed frozen where she sat, her insides dead; save her heart, which she could feel splitting apart as she watched the greatest power she had ever known crumble and fail at her feet. He was almost close enough to touch with her free arm, but she couldn't bring herself to reach out and feel the warmth of his body for the last time.

"Christine," he said again, his tone begging her to say something. She was mute—her tongue flopped uselessly when she tried to put words together. _Death, death, death…_

Blood. The faintest red spots were scattered over his mask, whether from his blood or Dion's she didn't know. They stuck there perfectly, a delicate pattern against pure white.

_God, that he would die wearing his mask…_

As his eyes fluttered shut, she felt a wrench inside her, as her heart returned twice over, beating so hard it hurt her chest. Like a woman under a spell, she yanked her arm out of the rope, the horrible burning pain not even making her flinch.

_Death!_

It overwhelmed her, the sheer force of it—a force that could only be conquered by the force itself.

Blindly, Christine crawled along the floor, her wrists wearing bloody bracelets that left gruesome stains on her pathetic chemise. Reaching Dion's body, she reached into the side of his coat and withdrew the second pistol. It felt solid in her hands, something real. Steadily, she got to her feet.

Raoul and Bonheur stood there still, strengths matched, their faces flushed with effort as they fought to outdo the other. Raoul had a corner eye's view of Christine; Bonheur had none.

Ears roaring, Christine turned and levelled the gun at the pair. Erik's eyes, gradually closing, seemed to hang in the air in front of the pistol, though he was behind her.

_Death._

Something burned within her—Erik's child.

_Life._

Every shot echoing loud as thunder, Christine emptied the pistol into the body of Nicolas Bonheur.

۞

**Author's Note: **Wink.


	15. Harmony

۞

_**Chapter Fourteen:**_

_Harmony _

۞

Raoul was holding Nicolas's arm so tightly he could feel the man's pulse speeding up fearfully as Raoul's strength waxed. He could feel each jerk of Nicolas's body as the bullets smacked into the stunned man's back, and still he held on, too shocked to ease his grip.

It was not until Nicolas's grey irises rolled into his head and his form slumped that the Comte peeled his fingers off and stepped back. Tearing his gaze away from the dead man, his eyes met those of Christine.

She still had the pistol pointed where her target had stood just moments ago, her chest heaving and her mouth misshapen with disgust. She returned Raoul's stare clearly. There was no trace of guilt lurking under her countenance—only raw hate.

_The last ones standing, _he thought abstractedly. _Alone again, after all this time…_Then he turned away and vomited next to his enemy's corpse.

The retching noise punctured the heavy silence. Christine flung the pistol away with a cry, throwing herself down beside Erik. With trembling hands, she pulled his mask away and cupped his face in both her hands. "Angel, _my angel_…" she murmured throatily, her fingers exploring every crevice of his face, from his white lips to the mottled flesh stretching over his cheek, to the folds of his closed eyelids.

"Chris…"

Her chest, which had slowly been compacting and shrinking away into nothing, sprang to life as the weakest sound floated from his mouth.

"Christine…"

And then suddenly her insides exploded, and she fell onto his chest in a storm of tears. "_Alive_," she sobbed, "Thank God, thank God…"

۞

The Nice authorities had arrived at the scene in record time; when a pair nobles and the son of a duke were involved—two of which now apparently dead—sluggishness was not an option. The chief of police anxiously questioned an agitated Comte de Chagny, who explained the situation as composedly as he could.

Nicolas Bonheur, who everyone knew had been insane for sometime, had broken into the Chagny house with the assistance of his spy, the butler. When the Comte arrived there with his friend Baron Marchand's son, the man had been waiting for them. He had held them at gunpoint, rambling on about avenging his father, and led them into the bedroom, where he was holding two of the house's skeleton staff (the rest were locked in the cellar). Bonheur had shot their footman when he overcame the accomplice, and the maid had been tied to the bed. When the Comte and Marchand tried to attack the madman while his guard was down, Marchand had been shot as well. Raoul struggled with Bonheur for the gun, before taking it and shooting him in self-defense when the man lunged at him with his rapier.

The officer had to admire the man's coolness. His wife had died just recently during the Commune's reign, and now he had been forced to witness the death of his friend's son. He let the man leave—Raoul de Chagny was an honest man, and he had told the story without hesitation. No further question was required.

۞

Christine had refused to leave the room while a doctor examined Erik, though she went very pale as his waistcoat and shirt were pulled back to reveal the bloody hole the bullet had left. It had gone straight through him and hit the bedroom floor, leaving a clean exit wound.

"Miracle it didn't hit any of the major organs," the doctor grunted to Christine. She had introduced herself as Erik's wife so the man wouldn't question her presence.

"So he'll be alright?"

"It will fully heal, yes—but only with time. He's going to be very tired for the next few days as he regains the blood he lost, and the injury will keep him in bed after that." He sighed gustily, and looked his patient over once more, smoothing the bandages he had wound liberally around Erik's waist. "This man has had very poor medical treatment up till now."

Christine eyed the elderly man questioningly.

"His face—I take it that it was an injury from his childhood?"

Christine let out a little gasp as she realized she hadn't replaced Erik's mask before the police came. "Er, it…" she stammered dumbly. "Yes, I suppose…I suppose you could say that."

"Pity that it wasn't tended to. Severe burns can heal with minimal scarring if they are cared for immediately."

"What?" Christine blurted out rudely, her mind numbing. _Severe burns?_

The doctor continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "But, there's nothing I can do for him now." Easing himself out of his chair, he tipped his hat at Christine and marched purposefully out of the room.

_Severe burns! _Christine could have laughed if she wasn't feeling so sick. Her anxiety for Erik had lessened, and she was able to concentrate on other things.

They had decided to lay Erik down directly on Raoul's bed, not wanting to risk further injury by carrying him out of the room. He slept now, his lips moving every now and then, mumbling incoherently. Christine squeezed his hand and averted her eyes to the currently empty room.

The only signs of recent events were the bloodstains. Christine's gave travelled from the pinkish streak on the wall—_Erik's blood_—to the dark pool on the carpet—_Dion's blood_.

_Dion, my friend…_She hastily wiped her eyes, but a fresh bout of tears swiftly returned. It was so strange, how life could end so quickly. Dion had been thriving; he was the most singularly _alive_ person she had ever known. Animation shone out his eyes, beamed through his smile, lingered underneath his every gesture.

And now cold metal had undone him. Somehow it didn't seem possible that she would never hear his voice again, or look forward to visiting him when they could return from England. Surely, there had been some sort of misunderstanding, and she would go to Marchand Manor, and he would be there to welcome her. _Surely_…

_No, not at all._

He was dead, dead like her mother whom she had never met, and dead like her father whom she had adored—dead like her child, whom she had barely known…

_Four_, she thought sorrowfully. _Four loved ones dead in one lifetime alone._

She hated the word, loathed it with every fragment of her being—save when it had taken Nicolas Bonheur. _I pulled the trigger. _She shivered, recalling the white-hot rage that had filled her, when she had believed Erik to be dead and all lost, taking life into her own hands, mastering the one power that had eluded her for so long.

She looked down tenderly at Erik, his bare chest shimmering with sweat and the left side of his bandage already turning a bright red. She felt no regret for what she had done. _Now nothing separates us, my angel, _she thought languorously. _Never again…_

With a furtive glance at the doorway, she crawled up beside him on the bed, carefully resting her head on the shoulder opposite of his injury. Her eyes were filled with the last crimson sliver of sunlight, dropping below the horizon.

_What did father say? Red sky at night, sailor's… _

But she couldn't seem to remember. The steady sound of Erik's breathing lulled her into a state of oblivious contemplation. He was so blissfully solid and alive beside her—they were both alive. At long last, they were free to be together, without murder or deceit or betrayal…it was all finished. Tingling warmth filled her, a swelling of joy, love, and disbelief.

"We can live beautifully boring lives," she whispered to Erik, even though she knew he couldn't hear her. "Calm, dull lives…and we will die in another's arms, of tedious old age. Won't it be grand?"

The weariness of her life weighing down her eyelids, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder and let Morpheus take her.

۞

Raoul felt curiously vacant as he shooed away the last reporter and started up the stairs. There was no satisfying awareness of duty done, nor a longing to proclaim his heroic victory. Overall, he found he had been in a better mood that morning when his adversary had still be alive.

Inattentively trudging into his room, he began to remove his coat and cravat when he realized it was covered in blood—_Dion's blood_. Closing his eyes to repress the nausea that had risen in his throat, he quickly pulled the garment off and tossed it onto a chair. No wonder he had received such eager exclamations from the press.

Dreading tomorrow's papers, he began to pull off his shoes. A low groan came from the direction of his bed, making him whirl around with a start.

Christine and Erik were sprawled across his bed, their figures entwined, lost in profound slumber.

For a fleeting moment he stood and admired how well they suited each other. Her petite form curving without a hitch into his tall one, the thin whiteness of her chemise blending with his bandages, and her chocolate-brown curls matching the dark dishevelled locks falling over his face.

_His face_—for once it seemed like only face to Raoul, not a blemish. He scanned the room for the man's mask, and found it discarded on the floor where he had been shot. Retrieving it, Raoul walked over and set it on the bedside table.

They looked like children, finding their way home at last.

He supposed he would sleep in Christine's bed tonight.

_Now that she finally rests in your bed once more, you seek another._

Raoul's mouth twisted at the irony of it as he scanned Christine's unfamiliar room. The bed seemed ruthlessly cold as he climbed into it, and suddenly he knew why he felt nothing for his triumph. _He had no prize_. There was no reason to celebrate, when he now slept and lived alone. The woman he had risked all for and at last saved would be leaving for England, with a new love, and a new life.

What was his reward?

Glory? _Pride?_ No.

But it was finished.

۞

With the richest man in Nice organizing Dion's funeral, its splendour would go unmatched for decades to come. The ceremony took place in the Marchand gardens. The Baron had white roses planted all around the area, blooming in the thousands as their stems twined around each other in a tangled mass of pale beauty.

Hundreds gathered to mourn the young man, as popular in death as he had been in life. Their countless black forms filled the seats positioned around the flowerbeds, none moving even to fan themselves in the heat.

The sun shone brightly that day, as it nearly always did in Nice, but today something was exclusively magnificent about the yellow-gold rays beating down over the service. Every colour seemed vivid and blinding with life, conflicting with the grounds of the ceremony, but somehow belonging. Emerald green trees and cerulean skies made the roses stand out all the brighter, creating a spotless sea of white.

Everyone watched in silence as the gleaming ebony casket was carried down the walkway and placed underneath a great marble arch. The structure was beribboned with black silk banners bearing the Marchand family crest. Beyond it, a gazebo covered in the same banners and white rosebuds. The roof of the gazebo covered the pew upon which the priest stood, as he performed the funeral rites.

Christine sat in the third row from the front, just a few seats away from the aisle. Her face was heavily veiled to avoid being recognized, but they had not bothered to disguise Erik, well known in Nice as Dion's tutor. She glanced over at him, inwardly touched at the moisture in his eyes. It was only when Erik was truly sad to the point of heartbreak that he expressed the sadness in tears, instead of anger. Her own eyes were streaming, but the glistening trails were hardly visible through the filmy black fabric of her veils.

He caught her gaze as she turned, however, and saw the tears immediately. One strong hand enclosed around her delicate one, and held it tightly. The gesture only made her cry harder, even as the soothing words of the priest washed over her.

They had taken up residence at Erik's Nice home for the remainder of their stay in France. Christine was again caring for Erik herself, with the help of his servants who had been delighted to have them back, Beaumont especially. He made no effort to hide his offense that they had left him out of the 'adventure', as he had put it.

Christine had been nervous when Erik decided to attend the funeral, though it had been two weeks after the injury had occurred and the salve she had used before on his shoulder wound was working wonderfully. In the end, she could not try to stop him from coming. She had never thought to in the first place.

Later on she realized just how much the death must have impacted him; with one apprentice having forsaken him and the other now dead, their child must seem to him his one chance to be remembered. Christine was confident about the pregnancy; Philippe had no problems until after he was born, and she had firmly decided that she would not worry about the future any more.

Then there was Raoul—her dearest friend, and the one enduring reminder of the days with her father, the days of her childhood. She sensed she had lost him entirely during recent events, and knew it would be better for all three of them if they did not continue seeing one another. The child would be a blow to Raoul, and though Erik denied it, Christine knew his old jealousy still lingered…

She smiled vaguely through her tears, resting one hand over her slightly swollen middle. Perhaps one day when they had all moved on, and old rivalries had been laid to rest…Perhaps then Christine could revisit her past in harmony.

۞

Hands in his pockets and brow furrowed in deep thought, Raoul strolled towards his carriage. Now that Dion had been properly interred, he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The Baron had spoken to him in private about the circumstances of Dion's death, and Raoul was relieved to find the old man held no grudge towards him. In fact, the Baron had thanked him for coming with a firm handshake and glistening eyes.

"Home, Grayson," he said idly.

As the horses pulled them away, Raoul glanced out the window and saw a dark-haired couple meandering along the boardwalk, the woman's veils whipping freely in the breeze.

…

"Christine?"

Looking up with a start, Christine gave Erik a sweet smile as he stepped into the room and came to her side. She sat at the desk in their bedroom, leaning over a blank piece of parchment with pen in hand. The candles burning had all sunken low and were dripping over their holders, filling the room with the sweet scent of beeswax. Outside, stars danced in the velvety night sky.

"Are you not coming to dinner?"

"I want to send this letter before we leave," she replied tiredly. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Erik ran her curls lazily through his fingers, gently grazing the back of her neck and smirking as she repressed a shiver. "A letter? To whom?"

"Raoul," she said quietly, grimacing as Erik's suave hands faltered. "You may read it afterwards, if you like."

Her heart swelled as he replied without hesitation. "No—you are only saying what needs to be said." He knelt down and kissed just below her cheek. She turned and met his lips when they came forward the second time, a familiar fire igniting within her as his gratifying lips caressed hers.

He pulled away, and she sighed disappointedly.

"Come eat, when you finish, my love."

He left, and she stared after him wantonly for a moment. But the blank paper beckoned to her, and eventually she dipped her pen in the inkwell, her neat writing gradually filling up the emptiness.

۞

_Raoul,_

_I write this letter anticipating the long separation ahead of us. There are many things I wish to tell you, and I fear that if I do not put them on paper now they will never be said._

_First and foremost, I must thank you for all that you have done for me, risking your happiness and life so that I might be spared. If it is any condolence, I did love you as a wife does, during the first year of our marriage. I still do love you as my dearest friend, and I know without doubt that one day you will find another who can fulfill the honourable position as your partner as I never could. I am afraid I was most disloyal to you, if not physically then mentally so, and you deserve the utmost devotion in a spouse. You are truly one of the greatest men I have ever known._

_I also never properly expressed my gratitude for that night you came to rescue me, the night of Dion's death, like you have so many times before. I know that without you Erik would never have found me, and I look upon you with as much admiration and respect as I do him._

_Lastly, I must apologize for my selfishness that put you through so much unnecessary suffering. My blindness to my true feelings was the cause for most, if not all, our misery in the past years, and if I could take it back I almost certainly would._

_However, I think that all our experiences together have taught us more than a life of leisure ever could have, and we are greater, wiser people because of it. I can only hope that you agree with me and someday forgive me for everything._

_Erik and I will have left Nice by the time you read this letter. We have decided to raise our child in England, where Erik is safe from the law and we can have peace in his country estate. I am sure you share the opinion that it is best for us to be separated as we adjust to our new lives, but I hope some day we can speak to each other with ease, like we did when we were children._

_Once again, thank you, dearest Raoul, from the bottom of my heart._

_Affectionately,_

_Christine de la Rue_

۞

"_Monsieur, a letter for you."_

"_Just put it there on my desk, I'll look at it in a moment."_

۞

The early morning rays of the summer sun drifted in through the glass doors leading into the gardens, forming warm puddles of radiance on the carpet and carrying in a sweet floral scent from the flowers just beyond the portal. The golden light clung like water droplets to the pearls sewn into Christine's elaborate bodice, and she twisted around in the small mirror on the wall, admiring the effect.

The pearls were only smidgens of the overall finery of the gown she wore. The creamy white satin that was the base material of the dress pooled around her feet and stretched out in a gleaming train behind her. Besides the pearls, the bodice was embroidered with roses that formed a 'v' just below the waistline. The cut was low and curved delicately over her breasts, scalloped with white lace. The sleeves, reaching only to her elbows, were beautifully ruched.

Her neck was dripping with diamonds and rubies, designed in a triangle with a huge pearl as the centrepiece. The tiara and veil were embroidered to match, the brilliant crimson rubies in the tiara accented beautifully by Christine's dark hair.

"Edith," she said breathily, clasping the elderly woman's hands, as she handed Christine a bouquet of red roses, so tightly that her knuckles turned white. "Edith, wait for a moment." She closed her eyes, a dreamy smile playing on her lips.

"Christine?"

"I want to remember this, standing here exactly as I am. I want to remember this feeling."

"What feeling is that, my dear?"

Christine reopened her eyes, their dark irises sparkling blissfully. "The feeling that I must be the happiest woman in the world."

Edith chuckled and patted Christine's arm affectionately. "Like every bride on their wedding day—now, if you dawdle any longer they will think you are not coming." She reached forward and placed both hands on the doorknobs, then looked back questioningly at Christine.

"I am ready," she reassured the older woman. The doors opened.

۞

Erik could not recall breathing throughout the entire ceremony. He was fascinated by the pinkness of Christine's lips, the turn of her hand, the russet flash of her eyes. A great, unknown joy spread throughout him, speeding up his heart and quickening his breath. The same joy reflected in her countenance increased the strange feeling tenfold, and he passed through the vows in a beautiful trance, gathering his wits only long enough to slide the golden band onto her finger, and revel in her gentle touch as she did the same to him.

His mind was reeling at the virginal exquisiteness of her, from her graceful throat to the masses of curls lounging freely over her shoulders. Once he even felt one of her tears land on their joined hands, and the delicious sensation was almost more than he could bear.

And as the priest they had bustled in from town completed the last line, Erik thought he could feel his limbs beginning to float upwards…

"_Et vos omnes, qui hic simul adéstis, benedícat omnípotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen."_

Christine's hands shook as she signed the marriage certificate, her tears leaving wet smudges all over the paper. He stared at her signature in awe for a brief moment before signing his own.

_Erik de la Rue._

_Mrs. Erik de la Rue._

He kissed his wife.

And always after that, the music was changed.

۞

**Author's Note: **I have to apologize for the shocking lateness of this chapter. Time passed to quickly I didn't think I was behind at all until I paused to glance at my calender. An epilogue is to come in a few days! Thank you all so much for reading.


	16. Epilogue

**Author's Note: **The end, for a second time. Thank you to my readers, reviewers, and other miscellaneous helpers.

۞

**_Epilogue_**

۞

_English Countryside, 1880_

۞

Raoul's hand, steady and sure all during the carriage ride, began to shake as he reached for the knocker. It was only a slight quiver, not even noticeable if he put the member in his pocket, or clasped it in front of him. He dropped it and sighed heavily.

The house was still as stunning as it had been—was it _six _years, now? Six years since he had last walked through the gleaming doors, into the vast entry hall, through the maze of corridors…

Six years since he had seen her, six years to put the past behind him, and still a cold sweat of apprehension graced his brow. Nearly six years since his godchild was born, a godchild he had never come to meet.

The cloud that had been blocking the sun drifted off, and polished gold glinted as he took a firm grip on the handle and knocked.

"…_Monsieur le Comte_?" The door was pulled open a moment later, and a familiar elderly woman stood before him, staring. He took off his hat and gave her what he hoped was a smile. His insides were churning horribly, unexpectedly—he felt the sudden urge to turn and run.

"Hello, I…I came to see Madame de la Rue and her husband—if they are here. I sent a letter, a short while ago…" He broke off uncertainly, the astonished expression of the housekeeper settling like a deadweight on his chest.

She opened and closed her mouth several times, searching for words. "Did…? Well—come in! I'm sorry, I've forgotten myself. Your letter did not reach us in time, I suppose." She moved aside and he stepped in, nervously removing his hat. "My apologies for the informality—it's the servant's day off."

He nodded in response, inwardly relieved; he doubted the customary butler knew how to speak French. Raoul hadn't thought to greet the woman in English, his anxiety automatically forming his mother tongue.

"This way, if you please." She gestured and started down the left hall. "M. de la Rue and his wife are outside, with the children, at the moment. They'll only be a moment." She let him into a parlour with cheery blue walls, and, making sure he was comfortable, shut the door behind her as she left.

He sat down on the edge of the cream coloured settee, removing his hat and fiddling absently with its brim. A numb sort of horror had set in after his quivering trepidation had subsided. _They didn't get his letter._ He had arbitrarily shown up at their door, on the servant's day off, while they were enjoying the fair weather with their children.

_Children. _The housekeeper had used the plural; that meant they had had another, or perhaps several others. While he was childless still…Jealousy prickled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it away, trying to steady his thoughts. What would he say when they came through the door? No doubt together—even after six years, he doubted Erik would want Christine to spend time alone with _him_.

The door opened.

"Papa?"

His stomach lurched at the word, and he all but leapt to his feet.

A little girl in riding habit, her dress covered with patchy grass stains, gawked at him. She desperately flattened her curls—dark coils that just brushed her shoulders—then gave him a low curtsy. "Hello sir," she said, her sweet voice bursting with suppressed excitement at the occasion of a visitor. Stepping forward, she offered him her hand. "I am Nadine de la Rue. Are you a friend of my mother and father?"

Raoul looked down into the wide blue eyes with a mixture of amusement and uncertainty. In his accented English, he replied, "Miss Nadine…I am Raoul de Chagny—" He took the tiny hand and bent down low to give it a kiss. "—Your godfather."

"Are you really?" She gasped, eyeing him curiously. Retrieving her hand, she took a seat beside him as he returned to the settee. She now spoke in lilting French. "Maman has told me about you. You are from France. I learned French so I could visit you—" she abruptly frowned, "—but Papa says I am too young."

He smiled at her straightforward dialogue. "When you are older, perhaps." Curiosity overtook him, and he asked, "What has your maman told you about me?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "She says you were her closest friend, when she was my age—and that you did brave things for her, things she would tell me about when I was older." With a huff, the girl dropped her chin in the palm of her hand. "Everything when I'm older!"

Raoul stiffened as the door opened again, and another child appeared. A little boy, with short dark curls, the shorter match to his sister's, raced to the girl's side. His riding habit was much cleaner, and he only glanced in Raoul's direction. Blushing shyly, he tugged at Nadine's hand. "Papa says we have to wait with Auntie."

"But this is my godfather," Nadine protested importantly, pulling away. "I must talk with him _now_, because he's come to take me to France!"

The boy's eyes amplified in alarm. "But I don't want you to go to France!"

"She is _not_ going to France." A firm voice came from the doorway, and all three companions looked up immediately.

Christine had barely changed from how Raoul remembered her, and any alteration had been for the better. Her cheeks were flushed prettily, and her eyes shone with paternal delight. She wore a riding jacket and split skirt of pine green, dark and dramatic against the pastel walls. Giving Raoul a small, knowing smile, she turned a sterner gaze on her children.

"He will still be your godfather after I speak with him, you do not need to talk to him _now_. You are frightening your brother." The children trudged over to her, spouting objections (Nadine insisting she _did _need to speak to Raoul, and the boy insisting he wasn't frightened). She tutted placidly, giving them both a little shove out the door. "Go find Auntie Edith, and _stay_ with her this time."

The door shut, and they were alone—

"Erik should be along shortly."

—For the moment.

He stepped forward and took both the hands she offered in his own, his mouth turning up in a lopsided grin as she squeezed them warmly. "It is good to see you, Raoul," she murmured, and he was surprised to find her eyes were glistening with moisture. "Truly."

"Your children—they're lovely," he said sincerely. Something about her calm disposition put him at ease, and his smile widened. "Especially my goddaughter."

"They're…" She struggled for a word to describe them, "Time-consuming." She laughed lightly, and then continued in her hushed, refined voice, "How are you?"

Raoul paused, trying not to think about how lovely she was. An image of thick flaxen hair, loose and fluttering, floated to the surface of his roiling mind, and he was at ease again. "Fine," he replied earnestly. "I'm doing fine." Releasing her hands, he gestured for her to sit across from him. "Actually, I came to speak with you about—"

The door opened; again. Raoul swallowed.

The mask was still the first thing to catch his eye, its whiteness vivid and glowing against the man's skin. Erik was dressed informally, his flannel shirt in disarray—work of his children, Raoul assumed. The Comte could not recall ever seeing the man in anything but formal wear. The difference was…

But perhaps that was not what struck Raoul as altered about the man. His face, and his eyes, they were at ease, unguarded as the man shared a look with Christine, and not even hostile as he transferred his gaze to Raoul. His eyebrows rose in greeting, and he nodded.

It was the closest thing to a respectful acknowledgement Raoul had ever received from the man—and he didn't even give any sign of surprise at seeing him.

Erik joined Christine across from Raoul, who sat again. He was struck at the way the couple moulded together subconsciously. Christine's hand found Erik's, and he leaned over her protectively.

With a mental shake, Raoul found the sentence he had let trail off before. "I came to meet my goddaughter—of course—and to inform you…" he reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope addressed simply to '_Le Famille De La Rue_'. "It is an invitation," he said, only a little unsteadily, "To my wedding. I'm engaged."

For a split second, no one spoke. Then Erik's eyes flared in discernment, and Christine threw up her hands with an animated exclamation. "Oh, Raoul!" She stood and embraced him openly, even as her husband sat in the room. The younger man stood motionless for a brief moment, and then embraced her in return. She withdrew to arm's length, beaming at him. "I really am _so _happy for you. Who is she?"

Raoul suddenly found himself speechless. What would she say? He knew _exactly_ how it looked, how it made his and Christine's relationship look—he could only pray she would trust his word…

"The Baroness Marguerite de Castelot-Barbezac." Erik spoke for the first time. He was staring down at the opened invitation, his expression blank. Raoul forced himself not to blink as the man raised his gaze and looked him directly in the eye. Abruptly Raoul realized Erik knew precisely whom the invitation was talking about.

۞

_"Allow me to introduce the lately widowed Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac, Monsieur le Comte. Perhaps you two will be of some solace to each other, after your loss. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to greet my guests."_

_Raoul stared resentfully at the retreating back of his host, Monsieur le Marquis Roche. He was an old acquaintance from Raoul's years in service of the navy, and so the Comte had felt inclined to accept the man's invitation to one of his many extravagant soirees. It was the first social gathering Raoul had attended since Dion's funeral, and he was finally feeling up to the mindless banter of nobility. After all, it was Christmas Eve._

_Unenthusiastically, he turned to greet this 'lately widowed' Baroness. He was half sick of the mournful facade he had dutifully put on for almost a full year now, and revisiting the subject he had been hoping desperately to forget was not something he had planned for his first Christmas alone._

_"Raoul? Raoul de Chagny?"_

_With a start, he scrutinized the woman before him. She was young, his age, when he had been expecting a lady in her fifties or sixties. Her thick flaxen hair was elegantly coiffed in a twist at the back of her head, leaving her shoulders and neck bare, and giving a golden frame to her heart-shaped face. She wore no jewellery, save a pair of tasteful diamonds in her ears, and a wedding ring whose pair was now, according to the Marquis, buried six feet under. Her light brown eyes were radiating warmth and concern, and her petite, full lips were parted in surprise._

_He knew her. An image of fire and panic flashed in his mind, and a young woman capturing his gaze for a split second, as her eyes glittered with pure nerve._

_"Marguerite?"_

_"Oh, Monsieur, please call me Meg—all my friends do," she smiled for a moment, her light voice fluttering up and around him. Then she froze, and the expression of delight slipped off her face. "But, no—Monsieur Roche, he said…" Her hands twisted nervously as she held them in front of her. In a choked voice, she continued, "Christine, is she not…?"_

_"She is not with us, no."_

_"Oh, Monsieur," she gasped, her eyes filling with tears, "Oh…"_

_Raoul suddenly felt a pang of guilt, deceiving the woman who had once been Christine's closest companion, a woman who had truly lost her husband and thought he deserved the same sympathy._

_But he could not betray Christine._

_Meg wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and smiled wanly. "I'm sorry, I know it must be hard for you to speak of it…perhaps, you would have lunch with me? Sometime this week?" She moved closer a little hesitantly. "It would be nice to speak with someone from…from before."_

_Raoul felt a bit of his hopelessness slip away. Someone from before—of course. Someone who could understand._

_He offered her his arm. "Will you walk with me, Meg? I think I'll find your company much more stimulating than anyone I might find here."_

۞

"She was widowed not long after it became known that I had—lost my wife, as it were. A friend introduced us, in hopes that we would comfort each other," Raoul said quickly, wanting strangely to explain himself to Christine's husband, to prove his innocence. He felt sure if Erik understood him, Christine would undoubtedly empathize with the relationship.

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched slightly, and he nodded. Raoul let out a little breath of relief. "My congratulations," the masked man said; sincerely, the Comte thought.

"Erik…? Do you know the Baroness?" Christine asked, the unspoken conversation that had passed between the two men bewildering her.

"Surely you remember your old confidant, Meg Giry?"

Christine's jaw dropped as the revelation sunk in. "Meg—_my_ Meg—a Baroness?" She sputtered.

"And the new Comtesse de Chagny, as it happens, on—" Erik glanced at the invitation again, "—August twelfth."

His wife gaped at him, and then burst into overjoyed laughter. Grinning mischievously, she bubbled, "Two little ballet rats, turned into Comtesses and Baronesses and—_ha_!" Turning to Raoul, whose tense body was sagging with relief, she said gleefully, "Of course we will come—all of us!" Then she suddenly grimaced, and he was reminded of the cloud that had passed over the sun earlier. "But…" Her eyes widened apprehensively. "How public is it? Who knows if Erik is still entirely safe in Paris—and the Girys wouldn't be the only people who could know me on sight—"

"Christine, please!" Raoul interrupted, almost amused at her fretting. "It's only a small ceremony, outside of Paris, with some family and our few closest friends. No one who knew you intimately enough to recognize either of you will be there besides Meg and her mother." He paused, his amusement dimming. "Of course, it will still come as a shock to Madame, seeing you alive, and…well, together."

"You haven't told them the truth about Christine?" Erik asked, his tone critical.

"We made an agreement not to talk about our previous marriages until we were ready," Raoul retorted defensively.

_How much did _Christine_ really know about _Erik's_ past, in any case? _

"Her husband was older—_much_ older—it was only to make a future for herself that she accepted his proposal. She doesn't like to speak of it, and I…" He looked down self-consciously. "The heart and thrust of it is that there has been no opportunity to tell her that her former best friend was not actually brutally murdered; but she does suspect that something is not entirely accurate about the story I told the papers. I…I will try to tell her before the wedding."

"Meg will understand," Christine said confidently, smiling again.

"Then you'll come?" Raoul asked hopefully.

"We'll come. All of us," Erik said, getting to his feet. Raoul, bewildered, got to his feet as well, thinking his visit was over.

Then, Erik pulled open the door in one quick stroke, and two small forms tumbled inside.

The two Rue children regained their footing and brushed themselves off, as Erik regarded them with a pained expression. "Are you quite satisfied?" He asked them, his mouth twitching, and Raoul realized in amazement he was trying to keep from laughing.

"We were only waiting for you to finish your conversation, Papa," Nadine informed him with wide, innocent eyes. "I thought it rude to interrupt."

"It wasn't my idea," the boy piped indignantly, clutching his father's pant leg. "Nadine said we were spies and I had to be quiet."

Nadine hissed and stomped on her brother's foot. "You weren't supposed to tell them _that_!"

As the boy's eyes watered, Erik scooped him up and stared down his nose at his daughter. "Apologize, Nadine," he ordered sternly.

When she only scowled, Christine repeated sharply, "Apologize, or you'll spend the rest of the day in your room."

"I'm sorry, Charles," Nadine mumbled grudgingly.

Charles, the boy, copied his father by staring down his nose at his sister. "Forgiven," he said pompously.

Christine covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, and Raoul coughed loudly.

"And now apologize to your godfather for eavesdropping."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur." She smiled sweetly at him, and Raoul smiled back. Then, turning back to her father, she said, less sweetly, "Auntie Edith sent us, because there's another visitor. We've never had two visitors in one day," she observed happily. "Are we having a party?"

"No," Erik informed her dryly. "Did you recognize this visitor?"

"No, but she shrieked when she opened the door, and hugged him."

Erik and Christine looked meaningfully at each other, and Raoul said quietly, "Perhaps I should be on my way…"

"Oh! Raoul, I'm so sorry—won't you stay for dinner?" Christine gave him a pleading look, but he shook his head decisively.

"I didn't mean to stay this long as it is, and we'll see each other in a month, won't we?" He smiled, first at Christine, and then at his goddaughter. "When you all come to France."

_For my wedding._

His heart sang.

۞

Christine waited until Raoul's carriage passed through the gates and disappeared around the corner, then stepped back inside and gave Erik a slow smile.

"He really is quite in awe of you, my love," she teased him merrily, taking his hand as they set off to greet the unknown guest Edith had sat outside at the tea table in the gazebo.

Erik gave her a sidelong look and replied solemnly, "I was under the impression it was _you_ who inspired his apparent trepidation." When she only looked puzzled, he continued, "You are quite horrifying for a French woman, Christine. I imagine if you had so much as spread your arms he would have crawled under the settee for terror."

"_You—_!" She cried indignantly, retrieving her hand and moving to slap his arm. His eyes danced as he seized her wrist in mid-strike and caught her to him, the guest momentarily forgotten.

۞

"Are you from France, sir?"

"_Non, mademoiselle_." Seth gave the girl, Nadine, a winning smile as she poured the tea, covering his chuckle with a deep cough as she faltered and spilled some into the sugar bowl. Flushing, she put the pot down and resigned to wait for an adult to join them.

The sun beat down on the back of his head, where the shade provided by the gazebo's roof came to an abrupt end. It made sweat trickle uncomfortably down the back of his neck and into his stiff collar, as his thick sable locks clung to his skin. Only the strong urge to impress his absent hosts kept him from removing his jacket and cravat.

"Are you an old friend of Mama—Mother's and Father's?"

Grinning inwardly at her slip of the tongue, he replied easily, "I've known your father since I was younger than you, Miss Nadine."

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "How old are you now?"

"I _think_ I might be seventeen," he said, egging her on.

"You think? That's silly. How can you not know your age?" She paused and raised her chin. "I'm eight years old," she announced proudly.

"Well, I don't know my age because I was born on the streets and my mother forgot my birthday."

Her eyes lit up in delighted shock. _Don't enjoy yourself so much; _he thought absently, grinning mischievously.

"You don't look like you live on the streets," she half whispered, leaning forward as though she were sharing a secret.

"That, my dear girl, is because I am very good at what I do," he whispered back tauntingly.

"And just what is it that you 'do', pray tell," a harsh voice demanded, and the two confidants' heads jerked up.

Erik and Christine stood at the top of the stairs leading up to the dais, staring at the young man talking to their daughter, Christine in astonishment and Erik grimly. He struck them both as beguilingly familiar, with the head of wavy black hair that surely was once a mop of curls; the glittering eyes still an indefinite shade of brown, grey, and green; the confident smirk that once decorated the face of a boy much, much younger…

Six years, and Seth had grown from a barely contained boy to a refined, self-possessed _man_. He was nearly as tall as Erik, his shoulders nearly as broad, and his chin just as arrogant.

"That, sir, is not fit to speak of in the presence of your daughter," Seth replied softly, determined not to be surprised. He turned to the girl in question and gave her another charming smile, baring his large, straight teeth to their full extent. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to give myself and your parents some time to catch up, my dear."

With a nasty look at the three people towering over her, she hopped daintily out of her seat and marched, haughtily as she could, away.

"Seth," Christine said, with a watery, uncertain smile. She struggled for words. "You've grown."

He laughed, a little too affably. "Just as your family. You have a charming daughter—your son was stolen away by Mrs. Attwater before I could talk with him properly." He motioned to the cushioned wicker bench Nadine had adorned moments ago. "Won't you sit down?"

They did so cautiously, Christine startled by his intimate little speech, and Erik betraying no emotion.

"Come now, don't look as though you're attending a funeral," Seth bantered, pouring the tea himself. "This is a reuniting of old friends, you should be throwing yourselves at me like the dear housekeeper."

"Forgive me if I doubt a 'reunion of old friends' to be your sole reason for coming here," Erik said cynically, his eyebrows arched. Christine took a cup silently, paling a little at her husband's bitter tone. She couldn't claim that she knew Seth as well as he, but she knew Erik better than he knew himself, and she sensed his suspicion. It put her on edge.

Seth's charming aura slipped away, replaced with a cool, calculating stare. "I suppose I deserved that. Query my motives to your heart's content, but in essence, that is truly my purpose. I have come to say goodbye."

"We haven't spoken for six years," Christine said carefully, after there was a tense silence. "I would think—I would think a goodbye would be rather too late."

Seth waved her comment away. "Not that sort of goodbye," he said, as though he was dealing with very young, slow children. "I am leaving the country, and I wanted to properly express my thanks for the time you spent harbouring me and teaching me. I was too young and—passionate, if you will, six years ago, to realize it was my mother who was at fault. I sincerely regret my reaction," he looked genuinely remorseful for a moment, then the expression morphed into one of mocking superciliousness. "I lost many valuable years of training that would be useful to me now."

The words ruined any chance of a true reconciliation, and Christine's hopeful expression wilted. She lay a gentle hand on Erik's arm, which was hard as rock. Knowing it wasn't yet safe for him to speak, she asked, "Your mother…how is she?"

"Dead," Seth replied bluntly, his eyes darkening. "Within the year of the…unfortunate affair that led our separation."

"Our condolences," Erik replied, opened his mouth to say more, and then shut it with a aggrieved look. Instead, he inquired, "Where are you going, exactly?"

"I would tell you, but that would be compromising my associates," Seth answered smoothly. "It is a business matter. I may not return to England."

"You're not yet _twenty!_" Christine protested brokenly. "What business could you possibly—?"

"Business you would not approve of," Seth interrupted heatedly, suddenly standing. "I have done what I came to do," he informed them impersonally. "Perhaps not as successfully as I might have wished, but remember that I returned to you in the end, even if you can no longer summon any sort of positive opinion of my me. I would also ask you not to turn my name and description over to the authorities for future reference, but I fear that would be hoping for too much. I…" He had spoken the last few sentences so quickly and sharply that he had to stop to catch his breath and rearrange his thoughts. He closed his eyes for a moment. "I hope, one day, you will understand. I am sorry."

Christine lowered her eyes and looked at her hands, fiddling in her lap. Though she willed against them, tears fell freely.

Erik got to his feet and stared levelly at his ex-apprentice. "I never meant for you to use what I had taught you like this," he said, not accusingly but apologetically.

"I know," Seth replied quietly. "It was my choice, not yours." He hesitated, and then held out his hand. After a nerve-wracking pause, Erik clasped it briefly. "Thank you," Seth muttered, his tone strangled, emotion breaking through his nonchalant veneer. Erik released his hand, and the younger man walked briskly away, without looking back.

Erik hated himself for a moment, when he saw himself in Seth and did nothing to help him. But by now it was beyond him, and he had other people to take responsibility for.

His weeping wife, to name one.

"Christine," he murmured comfortingly, sitting down and putting an arm around her. She leaned into his chest, hastily wiping her eyes. "There is nothing you could have done, beloved," he reassured her, kissing the top of her head.

"But—Erik, that's not it, that isn't it at all," she said mournfully. She took his cheek in her hand and looked at him face to face. "Please, look at me and tell me the truth."

Erik's insides suddenly chilled, as alarm bells went off in his mind. He was rarely taken by surprise.

"Are you, or are you not Seth's father?"

They stared at each other.

"_Christine_!" Regardless of the miserable situation, he burst into appalled laughter.

Christine blushed awkwardly, dropping her hand. "You aren't? But—the way his mother talked about us, when we met her—and you look…" She trailed off weakly as he continued to laugh, and smiled shyly in spite of her self. "I suppose it was a rather ridiculous question," she admitted with no small amount of humiliation. "It would just be so awful, if he were and you lost him to this...this..."

Taking her by the shoulders, he kissed her soundly. "I would never keep something that important from you, beloved," he said affectionately. "Seth has only ever been my apprentice, and his mother was only ever a very bitter woman I pitied horribly."

Christine nodded in acknowledgement. "She didn't seem your type," she admitted seriously, and the corners of Erik's mouth twitched. "You may kiss me again."

After a time, he sighed and spoke. "Seth's mother was the mistress of a rich businessman up north. He never acknowledged Seth as his son, and when he died suddenly, she was left with no means to raise him. The man's wife refused to help them, but I had encountered Seth by then and brought them to the shelter. His mother had lost all of her trust in men and life in general, but she loved her son fiercely. She only permitted me to continue teaching him because he enjoyed it so."

They sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the simple pleasures of the sun and the breeze, until Christine asked, "Do you regret it—teaching him what you did, now that you know what he is going to use it for?"

"No," Erik said, sounding weary. "I don't believe Seth would do something that was truly wrong—he may be a criminal, but the crimes he commits will not harm anyone. He will commit them for a higher purpose—" Erik's mouth turned up slightly. "If that is possible."

"Anything is possible," Christine replied unoriginally. She glanced up at the house, and smiled when she saw two tiny faces pressed against an upper story window. "Our children await us."

Erik followed her gaze and moaned with exaggerated exhaustion. "Perhaps we should leave them here when we go to France—or leave them _there_ when we return."

"My, what a miserable old man you've become," Christine laughed, knowing he would be hesitant to leave Nadine or Charles for more than a day. "Besides, there's going to be three before long, so you best put on a brave face."

Erik's eyes flashed instinctively down to her middle, where their third child was growing—a second son, though they did not yet know it.

As they strolled hand in hand back to the house, Christine commented, "Two prominent figures from our past in one day…" She sighed tiredly. "You'd think they compared schedules beforehand."

"Raoul," Erik paused, the man's name feeling unnatural on his tongue, "Raoul and Meg will be good for each other."

Christine glanced at him, surprised. "It will be nice to see France again," she said wistfully. "Perhaps we should visit…other places, as well—to show the children, of course."

"Do you miss France terribly, Christine?" Erik asked, supposedly offhand, but his wife caught the underlying agitation.

"No, Erik," she replied truthfully. "Only slightly."

"We could return, to stay, if you wish it," he persisted, unconvinced.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, mumbling something against his skin.

"I beg your pardon?"

"…_Stupid_," Christine repeated, grinning. "My delightfully stupid husband."

Erik gave her an offended look. "I suppose you won't explain that decidedly childish remark."

She laughed and threw her arms around his neck, not caring that Nadine and Charles were watching with identical intense stares from the doorway.

۞

**Fin**

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